Like Swans
by Lunaticpandorus
Summary: It was a marriage forged out of necessity and when the time was right, they would simply get a divorce. It seemed such a clear and easy arrangement... until a few pesky little things like 'sentiment' and 'emotion' started to complicate matters. Sherlock/OC
1. Kyrie Ellison

**A/N Hello all, welcome to my story. First some disclaimers. I make no money with this, this is purely because I love BBC's Sherlock. So, anything you recognise from BBC's Sherlock, comes from the hands of the great Mofftiss.  
**

 **My story starts sometime after the great game, takes some time introducing my own character, Kyrie Ellison and then follows the different episodes of the show. Starting from 'The Hounds of Baskerville', I started using the scripts provided by** **ariane devere. FF won't allow me to post a link but if you google 'ariane devere sherlock transcript', you will find her website! S** **ometimes, to make things easier,** **I use** **some of her descriptions** **as well. Props to her!**

 **English is not my first language, so beware of typos, grammar mistakes and stuff like that. I don't have a beta (yet) so, if anyone would like to volunteer, let me know!**

 **Triggers: There's a pretty graphic non-consent scene, quite early in the story. It's not too long, but I do want to give fair warning for those who are sensitive to a topic like that. When I upload that chapter, I will explain in the A/N what you need to look out for when we get to that scene, just in case you want to skip that.**

 **And I think that's it. So... without further ado, here's my story. I hope you will enjoy this and please... if you do, let me know with a review. Faves, followes and reviews will be greatly appreciated!**

 **Guest Thank you for leaving your review. First one. Yay! I checked on my phone and I see your point. I cut the largest chapters in half and pretty much uploaded everything anew. Hope this will be easier on the eyes. Sorry if my long chapters scared off people! Thanks for the suggestion 3**

Chapter 1

Heat and light emanated from the dancing and leaping flames in the fireplace. Tongues of fire lapped at the logs. The soft crackling sound from the fireplace and the soft tick-tocking of a mantel clock were the only sounds disturbing the quiet in the study. It was not a peaceful quiet though, not by a long shot. It was a heavy and expecting quiet.

A tall figure stood motionless in front of a Victorian mahogany pedestal desk, silently watching another figure seated near the fireplace in a large comfy chair.

"May I remind you that the life of a certain young lady is now resting solely in your hands, brother mine?" Mycroft Holmes asked softly. Though his voice sounded almost bored, people who actually knew Mycroft , would recognise the anxiety betrayed by his posture, belying the calmness of his words.

If Sherlock really wanted to stick it to him… Well, he would never get an opportunity like this again, practically offered on a silver platter. All he would have to do, was say one simple word. No. With one word, he would completely and forever beat his older sibling. Also, he would be condemning a young woman to a life of pain, humiliation and undoubtedly a premature death. Though, Mycroft suspected, that latter bit of information was now the furthest thing on his younger brother's mind.

"What if I say no?" The words were so evenly and indifferently uttered that Mycroft still had no idea what Sherlock's final answer would be. It could still go either way.

"You already know, brother mine."

"Tell me anyway."

Mycroft sighed. People who could claim a close personal association with him, would recognise the sigh as a sign of annoyance. A small crack in the otherwise emotionless façade, at the moment far superiorly mirrored by his younger brother.

"Nothing. Not to Mummy and Daddy at least, Kyrie has already graciously seen to that."

"What?"

Mycroft quietly rolled his eyes at the question, he doubted that Sherlock had even noticed himself asking that one worded question. Sherlock was far, far way and seemed in no hurry to return to the land of the observing.

"Her name, Sherlock. Her name," Mycroft berated Sherlock. Though his voice was still calm and collected, it had gained a sharper edge. "Kyrie Ellison."

"And this… Kyrie… She agreed to the marriage herself?"

Mycroft could feel his hands itching with the desire to slap his brother in the face. Though Mycroft claimed no personal attachment to the young lady in question, he did know the person who was so consumed by his obsession for her, that he was willing to destroy lives to get his wish.

Ah. Human sentiment and fickle desires. How they could cripple even the wisest of men, rendering them completely useless. Though in this case those desires had turned one of the most powerful and richest men in the world into a madman, driven by the oldest need in the book. Mycroft had already been treated to a sickening sample of what Gerulf had in store for his parent's little protégée if Sherlock said no.

If Gerulf didn't hold so many different strings he could pull to make things very, very difficult for Mycroft, or actually the government, Gerulf would have long disappeared himself. Left to rot in some unknown little place of malady in some unknown part of the world until there was no one left in the world to even remember that name.

"Yes, Sherlock," Mycroft said, this time unable to keep the loathing from his voice. "Kyrie did agree to the marriage. To keep OUR parents safe. Gerulf has made his intentions crystal clear. He CAN and WILL orchestrate the demise of one of our parents, or even both, in such a way it can never be traced back to him."

"Oh, so it is _their_ fault some maniac is using them to get what he wants? And why would… _she_ … agree to marry that man? I guess it is the honourable thing to do when someone is threatening to _kill_ people because of you. But still… why would she throw her own life away for people she doesn't know all that well? She could have said no. "

Mycroft sighed again as he saw the look of genuine confusion briefly cross the features of his brother's face. "Human error. Sentiment. Her parents knew our parents for some years," Mycroft explained. "They were close. Friends apparently. For some reason she cares about them. Even to the extent that she is willing to sacrifice her own happiness, her life perhaps, so that our parents can go on and live their quiet boring life the same way they have done for years.

"The thing is, Sherlock," Mycroft continued as he took a few steps to stand still in front of his younger sibling, looking down at him as Sherlock was still seated in the same position. "The thing is, and much more important…. Mummy and Daddy also care about her. And they lied to protect her. They lied to Gerulf Schricken, knowing that yes, they could easily let Kyrie sacrifice herself by marrying that monster, but they said she was already married instead. To their second born son. To you. Gerulf buying into that ruse is the only thing that keeps her safe, for now."

At those words Sherlock seemed to return to this realm of reality. His eyes looked up, again devoid of any sign of anger or distress. Any feeling at all really.

"I don't do relationships, Mycroft. It's not my area. The emotions, the feelings that come with… relationships… They are abhorrent to me and keep me from what my brain was built for."

"Exactly!"

When Sherlock just stared up at his brother, Mycroft threw up his hands. "Sherlock, this marriage would just be a business contract between you and her. You don't love, we both know you don't have a heart for it. You would only provide her the safety of your name. Nothing else. And in a few years, when Gerulf has found a new victim to obsess over, you can simply divorce. It's not like you will suddenly find the love of your life in those few years. And think about it, mummy would finally stop pestering you about settling down. Come to think of it, I kind of wish I could have been the newly wedded husband."

Mycroft let out a wistful sigh as he allowed himself for a brief moment to fantasise about the ceasing of his mother's incessant querying about his love life, or lack thereof. As she grew older, she was resorting to emotional blackmail by saying she would love to see her grandchildren before she was dead. With this arranged marriage, they would know and understand the deal.

"Does she know what she is in for?" Sherlock asked softly. Mycroft inwardly smiled in triumph, though his face didn't move a muscle. He knew he had him now.

"Does she know you're a high functioning sociopath? No. Does she know she doesn't need to expect any declarations of love coming her way? Yes. Still, I dare say a life with you is far more appealing than what dear Gerulf has in store for her. But, knowing you, it really could go either way."

Mycroft ignored the cold glare that Sherlock sent his way. "If you don't mind, we have but a small window to make sure you actually are married. The papers are ready, falsified and ready for archive. Should Gerulf want to investigate, he will find no other information than that you got married two weeks ago. That small window is fast closing though. So, again. May I remind you that the life of a certain young lady is now resting solely in your hands, brother mine?"

Finally, Sherlock Holmes arose from his seat. He squared his shoulders as if going to battle, his back ramrod straight, and buttoned up his jacket.

"Lead the way, brother mine," Sherlock said and he followed his brother out of the reverend's study, to the hall where the reverend, his parents and his bride awaited him.

Sherlock walked to the front of the church and stood still beside a complete stranger to him, some woman who would be his wife for at least some time. He turned to look at her, all ready to deduce every detail of her everyday life, and found that he couldn't. He furrowed his eyebrows as he took in her appearance. Small, petite, blond. Curly? No, wavy hair but done up in soft curls. Long? Short? Definitely not short. Medium length? Long? Unknown.

Huge blue orbs stared up at him. Eyes the colour of tanzanite gemstones, way too big for her delicate heart shaped face. She was scared and apprehensive and tried not to show it. Brave then? Not prone to hysterics? Unknown.

Sherlock's eyes fell on her chin for a brief moment, there was a small cleft, hardly noticeable, but still there.  
Her chest betrayed her nerves with its rapid falling and rising. She had very feminine curves and Sherlock could see how other men would find her attractive. She wasn't ugly. In fact, she was quite pleasing to look at. At least her looks wouldn't be a constant source of annoyance then.

Other than that, he couldn't for the life of him see what exactly about her could make a man so obsessed about her as this Gerulf Sherker or something. To be honest, she didn't look that special. She looked quite forgettable... pleasing yes, but forgettable. Except maybe for those strange eyes with that tanzanite pale blue colour with just a hint of violet.

She didn't wear a wedding dress. No, of course not, why should she? This wasn't a real wedding anyway. She did wear a dress though. A short one, mid-thigh. Cream coloured satin layered with a translucent chiffon falling an inch and a half past the hemline. The dress had a one inch bias satin strip at the neckline, crossing at the front and wrapping around a slender neck. Either she had picked the dress herself or it was picked for her. Whoever had picked it, had a good taste. At least he wasn't appalled by it.

There was nothing about her skin or jewellery that told him anything about her. Her skin was flawless, pale but with a hint of pink on her cheeks. Well, that at least told him she wasn't often exposed to sunlight and she had an inside job.

No jewellery at all. Either she didn't have any jewellery with her or she didn't care about it.

She had a subtle aura of some floral fragrance around her, tender and subtle. It wasn't a new fragrance, lacking the harsh green notes so popular in new releases. Older then. Her signature scent? If it was, he would be able to live with that. It was quite nice, not unpleasant at all.

When the reverend scraped his throat, Sherlock realised all eyes in the church were on him. He smiled briefly at the woman. "Hi," he quickly whispered to her, "I'm Sherlock." The smile dropped from his face the moment he had introduced himself.

"I know," she whispered back. Did he detect a soft lilt in her voice?

"Shall we get on then?" Sherlock suggested, hating the fact that everyone was just standing there wasting time. The sooner he could get this Kylie installed in his shared apartment in Baker Street, the sooner he could get on with his life. 221B Baker Street. Shared with his best friend, well, his only friend… John Watson. Sherlock smirked a little. Wouldn't he be in for a surprise when he suddenly turned up with a wife? If he didn't hate the entire institution of marriage so much, he would consider it a fine joke.

The ceremony was carried out quickly, all he had to say was 'I do' at the right moment. There was a moment of awkwardness when the reverend asked him for a ring. Of course he didn't have a bloody ring! Mycroft walked over to him and slapped a ring in his hand. The look on his mother's face told him he should recognise it, probably an heirloom, but he really didn't. He slid the ring on his almost wife's finger, her hand trembling slightly in his and he dropped it the moment the ring was on. A warning glare refrained the reverend from commenting about the lack of a ring for the groom. Finally the reverend finished the ceremony with those ill-fated words, "I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may kiss the bride."

The smirk on his brother's face didn't go undetected. Sherlock decided to not make a spectacle of himself and opted for a quick peck on his now wife's cheek, he then turned around and wordlessly stalked down the aisle, leaving his bride to fend for herself.

Kyrie released a breath of air she didn't even realise she had been holding. Thank goodness that was over and done with! Her eyes quietly followed her 'husband' simply walking away from the spot where they had just got married.

"I wish I could say congratulations, sister dear."

Kyrie turned around and saw her husband's older brother standing there looking quite untouchable in his expensive looking suit. He offered her a quick smile. "Instead I will wish you good luck and welcome to the family. I'm afraid it is what it is. There's a car waiting outside for you, to take you to your new… home."

"Thank you," she answered simply, and then, "Myrcoft?"

Mycroft, who had already started to walk away from her as well, turned around with a not quite genuine smile curving his lips. Kyrie had just known him for a short while and knew that, in his own way, he was making an effort to be 'nice'.

"Yes?"

"Are you sure Gerulf will just accept the fact I suddenly turned out to be married? Won't he retaliate and exact vengeance using your parents?"

"As long as you can at least keep up appearances for a while, and with you I mean my brother," Mycroft said, "there's no reason for Gerulf to carry out his threats. He wanted you, you are already taken and unavailable. And he's not fond of seconds. He will be churlish about it and probably deny me some _toys_ , but my parents will be safe. Thank you, again. I know this can't be easy for you."

Kyrie just nodded.

"Oh, and Kyrie? Beware, Gerulf may eventually want to pay you a visit. You know, once the shock of not getting his way wears off. If he does and even slightly suspects the true nature of your marriage…" He didn't finish his sentence, just nodded at her and left her alone with her new parents-in-law.

She pressed her hand against her stomach, trying to alleviate the nausea, and felt her fingers tremble against her body.

"Come on, sweetness, time to go. I will have your clothes sent over as soon as possible. Mycroft will take care of everything else," Mable Holmes said quietly. Again Kyrie couldn't do anything else but nod. She could feel a fit of hysterical laughter bubbling up but managed to repress it. Suddenly Mable firmly gripped Kyrie's upper arms and looked at her intently.

"I am not going to sugar coat things, Sherlock is for many a challenge to get along with. Most people have problems just tolerating him and that's on one of his good days. He has many flaws and I pray you have the patience to put up with them."

Kyrie had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. If that's how her mother-in-law felt about her own son… "Sweetie, don't let my words discourage you. Like I said, I am not going to sugar coat, I know what an arrogant childish little sod he can be. But, he _is_ worth it, Kyrie. In the end, I wouldn't entrust your safety to anyone else. And I am sorry… so, so sorry that this reptile tried to use us against you, to force you into marrying him. I am NOT sorry however, that his threats resulted in you marrying our son instead, because now I get to call you my daughter!"

Kyrie got pulled in a crushing hug and she immediately wrapped her arms around Mable. She didn't want to let go, she didn't want to leave the safety and love she felt in their embrace. The older woman soothingly stroked her back telling her things would be quite all right.

"Now, tell that wayward son of mine we WILL be visiting this Christmas. Can't wait to hear that lovely voice of yours sing again."

Kyrie said nothing to that comment. Singing… hadn't that been exactly what had put her in this current situation? Mable finally let her go with a sniffle and then her husband stepped in to press a fatherly kiss on her forehead.

"Don't worry, he's a good lad. Underneath that cold exterior there is a heart, no matter what other people may say. And if he gives you grief, just give me a call. I'll will give him a good old wallop," George Holmes said with a wink and Kyrie couldn't help but chuckle a little.

After a few heartfelt hugs and words, Kyrie was brought to her new home in the government car her brother-in-law had arranged for her. When she got in, Kyrie found a small valise sitting in the back.  
A young woman who went by the name of Anthea, that probably wasn't her real name, was also seated in the back, keeping her company during the drive. Anthea was a bit preoccupied with her phone as she was texting away the entire time. Only when the car suddenly came to a stop in Baker Street, did Anthea lift her eyes from her phone.

"Good luck, Mrs Holmes," Anthea said, calling Kyrie by her new name. There was kindness in her eyes and pity as well. "You will need it," Anthea stated simply. When Kyrie stepped out of the car, Anthea offered a small smile and raised her hand in goodbye before she closed the door and the car drove off.

Kyrie looked around and took in her surroundings. She was dropped off right in front of Speedy's, a sandwich bar and café. The bright red canopy drew in one's attention amidst the white stone walls and black iron fences. Well, her new husband probably wasn't living in a sandwich bar, Kyrie thought wryly when her eyes fell on the small black door to the left of the sandwich bar. Number 221B.

She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed in deeply to steady herself.

" _You, my dear, are utterly delicious. I think I shall make you mine."_

Her eyes flew wide open at the unwanted memory and Kyrie practically ran to the door and pressed all three bells right after the other. Certainly someone was going to answer the door, she hoped. She violently rubbed her cheek in disgust, as she could vividly recall the feeling of Gerulf licking her with his tongue, before planting his fleshy moist lips against her skin. A guttural moan had escaped him, his hot breath tickling her skin in a vile and repulsive way. A frustrated sob escaped her own lips when she failed to rub that memory away. Suddenly a different, more recent memory surfaced in her mind…

During the ceremony Kyrie had not dared to study the appearance of the man who would be her husband. Just a brief glance when he had introduced himself. That brief glance had told her that he was quite a bit taller than her. Tall, slender, elegant. She recalled a pallid complexion that betrayed an unhealthy lifestyle, a mop of dark curls and piercing blue eyes. The cold glare in those eyes had been why she had quickly looked away.

There had been a brief pause, an awkward silence when the reverend pronounced them husband and wife. Thinking back to that moment, when that man who was now her husband had leaned in to chastely place a soft kiss on her cheek, it was on the exact same spot where Gerulf had touched, licked and kissed her. Even though the moment had been awkward and the kiss had been by a complete stranger, branding her his, Kyrie knew she vastly preferred that memory over the other. Actually, she welcomed that memory and allowed it to eclipse any thoughts of… _No… Stop it! Don't even think about!_ Her hand still against her cheek, she looked up in surprise when the door suddenly opened and she found herself looking at the equally surprised face of a kind looking older woman.

"Hello, dear," the woman said in a pleasant tone, almost as if she was asking a question. Her mouth remained open in an expecting smile. A stylish short hair-cut, make-up a bit heavily applied, this lady appeared to take good care of herself.

"Hello," Kyrie stammered, "I'm… err …" She had no idea what to say or how to introduce herself. It felt way too weird to suddenly refer to herself as Mrs Holmes, even though that was who she was now. Also she felt quite embarrassed. Just married, her husband stalked off to God knows where, dropped off by a government car without ceremony. Not exactly how she used to imagine her wedding day. Suddenly she felt tears stinging her eyes and she bit her lip in an attempt to stop them from falling. The smile on the woman's face dropped from her face, replaced by a look of worry.

"What's this then? Why the tears? Come in, dear, no need to keep standing outside like a log! Come in! Come in!"

The kind woman practically pulled her inside the flat and ushered her further into the building.

"I'm so sorry," Kyrie blurted out while allowing herself to be gently pushed through a door ahead, into a small but cosy kitchen. "I just haven't had a very good day so far and… I'm afraid it's just a bit much."

"What is, dear? I am Mrs Hudson by the way. I am the landlady of this building. Here let me make you a nice cuppa tea."

Kyrie soon found herself sitting in wobbly and creaky wooden kitchen chair at a very small table in a corner of the kitchen that seemed to be meant for just one person. A cup of tea was quickly placed in front of her and she was offered a plate of biscuits. Kyrie declined with a smile as wobbly as the chair.

"There, that ought to calm your nerves a bit. Now tell me, what has got you all upset. And… who are you?"

Kyrie chuckled lightly at the question. Who was she indeed? Feeling the sudden need to accept the offered compassion, Kyrie just blurted out the entire story. From beginning to end, without holding back any details, well, apart from just a few. How she had visited old, close friends of her parents, wanting to see them after her parents had died in a plane crash a few years ago. How those people had been delighted to see her and had urged her to stay with them. Her parents had always praised her voice, had secretly hoped she would aspire a singing career, but her shyness to perform for large groups had prevented that. So, those friends of her parents were curious and wondered if she felt comfortable enough to grace them with a song. And she had. And they had loved it. Then one evening a son of theirs suddenly dropped by with a business associate and got distracted by her singing. That meeting ultimately culminated in that terrible moment where she got pinned against the rough surface of the stone wall in a dimly lit hallway. And then… and then…

Kyrie needed a moment to recollect herself and then she continued with the moment when that son and the business associate went away and she told her parents' friends everything. Kyrie then wanted to head home again, but her parent's friends refused to let her go and insisted she would stay at least for the rest of the week. Then suddenly that atrocious man had returned to reveal his desire and what would happen if that desire was not met. He had shamelessly used her affection for these two people who had such a deeply rooted bond with her deceased parents.

He had known that Kyrie would never want anything to happen to them and would be willing to do anything to prevent any harm to come to them. Even agreeing to marry him. That was when Mable, Mrs Holmes, who in her turn was anxious to protect Kyrie from that monster, had stated in blind panic that such a union would be impossible, since she had recently married their youngest son. Gerulf had stormed away in a fury. And just like that there was no time to think and no time to stop because arrangements had to be made. Quickly. And now she was here.


	2. Kyrie Ellison, now Holmes

Chapter 1-2

Mrs Hudson stared at her, her mouth agape in shock. Silence stretched between them and Mrs Hudson just blinked a couple of times, before letting her gaze drop to the ring on Kyrie's left hand. Kyrie felt very conscious about having blurted out her entire story, knowing how dangerous it could be if the true nature of her marriage would come to light.

"Are you really saying that you are married? To… to… Sherlock Holmes? I never thought I'd see the day! I always thought that he and John…" there she stopped talking and laughed nervously. "Never mind that, dear. Oh, let me have a proper look at you! Aren't you a lovely thing! So you will be staying here then? Of course you are! Silly me! Well come on, I'll show you where they live."

"They?" Kyrie asked in confusion.

"Yes, Sherlock rents the apartment together with John Watson. Thick as thieves those two, although sometimes… Ah but they can both be so stubborn and head strong. You got your work cut out for you, I tell you. But they are wonderful. Sweet and wonderful those boys."

Mrs Hudson happily prattled on as she carried the valise up the wooden steps of the stairs and opened the door of the apartment where she was to live.

Kyrie stepped inside the living room that was at the moment devoid of human presence. She stopped dead in her tracks when she spotted a human skull resting on the mantel piece.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Kyrie heard Mrs Hudson sigh disapprovingly. "What a mess you have made again! This is no way to welcome your wife! Where is that boy anyway? Probably running around the city with John, solving ghastly murders and whatnot. Not even the slightest inkling in that head of his to see you home safely. He is brilliant, such a clever intelligent mind but… he can be so daft and thick at times I could just throttle him!

Kyrie just stood in the middle of the room, rooted to the spot, mouth agape at the flood of knowledge she just received about her husband. What the hell kind of man had she married? There was a skull… a human skull… on the mantel piece. In the living room! And it looked damn real! There was a display of a bat and … dead things on that mantel piece too! Books were cramped tightly against each other on shelves in a corner. Boxes filled with papers littered round the room. Weird looking trinkets she could only guess the function of. A spray painted smiley on the wall? With bullet holes? And the kitchen! From what she could see from her spot, it kind of looked like someone had set up lab on the kitchen table. She literally felt at a loss for words.

Mrs Hudson plopped her down in a nice comfy chair. "This is really John's chair but I'm sure he won't mind. Make sure to make this place as much your own as theirs, I know them, especially Sherlock has the tendency to claim certain spots for himself. Don't let him. But he is a dear boy. A few years back my husband was sentenced to death in Florida. The dear thing really helped me out."

"Oh, he stopped your husband from being executed?" Well, that was a good thing at least.

"Stopped?" Mrs Hudson exclaimed in surprise, "Oh, no, dearie! He ensured it! Forever in his debt I am, it's why I let this place out to them so much cheaper."

Cold dread settled deep inside of her. What if she had escaped one psychopath just to fall in the clutches of a different one? No… she refused to believe that. She had to trust that Mable would never have come up with this plan if her son could be a threat to her. Still, the few things she knew about the stranger she had married made her feel very uncomfortable. Just how uncomfortable compared to how Gerulf made her feel, she didn't know yet. A quick look outside the window made her realize that evening had already well set in. It hadn't been exactly an early wedding.

The sound of footsteps bounding up the stairs shook Kyrie out of her reverie. She could feel the blood drain from her face, her hands and feet suddenly felt really cold and her throat went dry. She wasn't sure what she feared the most; the strange man that was her husband about to burst through the door, or the nausea inducing Gerulf Schricken. When the door opened and her 'husband' stormed inside like a whirlwind, Kyrie let out a shaky breath of relief and felt incredibly stupid. What an idiotic thought to even think for one single moment that Mable's son could in any way be worse than what Gerulf had done to her so far.

"So, when do you think we can expect to hear of Moriarty again? He did say we hadn't seen the last of him." The sound of that voice was unfamiliar to Kyrie, but after her talk with Mrs Hudson, she figured she could make an educated guess.

A shorter man than Sherlock with short cropped blonde hair appeared in the room. He scratched his head and looked up when Sherlock didn't answer his question. When Kyrie shifted her gaze from him to Sherlock, she found him staring at her with an unreadable expression on his face.

The moment he noticed her looking at him, he squared his shoulders and plastered a smile on his face. An obviously fake one.

"Ah, my brother saw you safely here. Good. And you've met Mrs Hudson. That's also good. As you undoubtedly know by now, she is our landlady. And this is John. John Watson, I'm positive you already know that as well," Sherlock said as he gestured his hands towards John.

"Uh, hello," the man indicated as John greeted her. He was visibly confused and curious about her presence in the room. The poor guy waited a bit for further introductions, but Sherlock didn't seem it necessary to introduce her to his friend. He just settled himself in the chair opposite of where Kyrie was sitting and she could just feel his unflinching gaze settle on her again. Even though there was plenty of space between them, his current proximity still made her feel uneasy. Sherlock only averted his gaze when John, poor bloke, was still standing there until he scraped his throat.

"Don't you want to introduce your friend to me?" John asked, the tone of his voice seemed a bit clipped. It could be his usual manner of speech of course, although it sounded more like he was a bit agitated.

A brief look of surprise crossed Sherlock's face. "Oh right. John, this is…" Sherlock paused for a moment and Kyrie suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. "Kira," he finally finished his sentence. "Kira is… well… we just got married. So, she's my wife."

"My name is Kyrie, not Kira."

"Kyrie then."

"No," John shook his head and chuckled as if Sherlock had just told him a good joke. "Nah, I don't believe you. Who is she, really?"

"I just told you," Sherlock said as if that explained everything before his eyes fell on the valise that was put on the couch at the back of the room. "Ah, I forgot to take that into consideration."

Both Kyrie and John looked from him to the valise and then back to him again.

"Accommodation!" Sherlock said, his voice sounding exasperated as if they should immediately know what he was talking about. "There are only two bedrooms. Where does she stay? We can't exactly have her sleep on the couch."

John still seemed to have trouble to wrap his head about the entire surprise wife ordeal. "But, if she is your wife… shouldn't she be staying with you then?" he ventured carefully, earning him a huff of indignation.

"Oh, please no, John! It's not _that_ kind of marriage!" He actually sounded repulsed by the idea and Kyrie felt an odd mixture of relief and irritation. When Mycroft had assured her that Sherlock would not be interested in her _that_ way, she had scarcely believed him. What sane, straight man would not be tempted to try something? So, either he was gay, or he was insane. Kyrie secretly hoped for the first, but with her luck he'd certainly turn out to be insane. Her irritation? Well, what sane woman would not feel insulted at the display of such revulsion at the mere thought of being intimate with her?

"There is of course that study next to my room. It's very small and could only fit a bed and maybe a chair and a night stand once the desk is cleared out. Would that be sufficient for you? You can store your belongings in my bedroom of course, make use of my closet. Plenty of room. At least you'd have your own bed. I'll text Mycroft to send in a crew tomorrow. You can sleep in my bed tonight. I will take the couch." Without waiting for any sign of agreement, Sherlock took his phone from his jacket and started texting.

"Another advantage of this arrangement, is when Gerulf Shirken does decide to come and sniff about, he will see both our belongings in the same room. I have a King sized bed so for all intents and purposes it will seem we share the room together."

"Schricken," Kyrie said softly.

"What?" Sherlock asked absent-mindedly as he was still preoccupied with his phone.

"Can someone please explain to me what the hell is going on? John asked, his voice gaining in volume as he noticeably got more and more agitated.

"Sherlock," Kyrie carefully tried the name, it felt as foreign to say out loud as it sounded inside her head. "Can you explain this to John? What happened? I already did this today," Kyrie turned around to look at Mrs Hudson who was still hovering around nearby and cast her a pleading look. "I don't think I can manage again. A lot has happened and to be honest, I'm dead on my feet."

"Oh, of course you are, dear!" Mrs Hudson cried out and immediately walked over to the couch to fetch the valise. "So you will take the couch tonight then, Sherlock? Good to know chivalry isn't entirely dead with you."

"I already offered, didn't I?" Sherlock grumbled in an indignation.

"And so you should! And don't even get me started about leaving her behind at church, leaving it to your brother to get her here."

"At church?" John asked dumbfounded, "So, this isn't a joke then? You two really are... married?"

"Don't mind them, dear," Mrs Hudson prattled along, she seemed to love prattling and coddling, and she ushered Kyrie through the living room first, then through the kitchen until she suddenly found herself in a bedroom. Sherlock's bedroom. It wasn't very big, but roomy enough for the elegant King sized bed, a dresser, a closet, a small desk and a small display cabinet. The furniture seemed to have been placed in the room at random, without regard of whether the styles went together or not. They didn't go together, but somehow they did seem to belong together.

It was definitely a man's room but it did have a homey feel. She smiled a bit, taking in the appearance of the room. Sherlock had said she could utilize the space in his room for her own things. Did he mean the space on the impeccable wooden floor? Otherwise it seemed every surface on the dresser, desk, even the display cabinet, was already in use.

Mrs Hudson seemed to read her mind. "No worries, dear. I will get Sherlock to make some room for you. If he doesn't we will just have to make some room ourselves. And I can tell you, if he leaves it to me, he will be far less pleased with the results than if he makes a bit of effort himself."

Kyrie smiled at the thinly veiled threat and was glad to have found a kindred spirit. At least she wouldn't be entirely alone and out of place here.

By the several warnings she had gotten from her in-laws and even Anthea, she somewhat knew what to expect from the person that was Sherlock Holmes. She did not yet know what to make of John Watson however. Mrs Hudson certainly seemed fond of him. Then again, she seemed fond of Sherlock as well, talking about him as if he were the kindest, most caring soul alive.

With a sigh, Kyrie sat down on the bed. She arched a brow when she felt the quality of the bed linen. Sherlock was probably the least frivolous person she had ever met, except maybe for Mycroft, but he certainly seemed to appreciate fine quality. She shook her head and pulled the valise towards her.

"A bit small isn't it?" Mrs Hudson asked a bit worried, nodding in the direction of the valise. "Are you sure you have enough in there?"

Kyrie shrugged her shoulders. She had no idea what was inside. The clothing she had brought with her on her trip was still at the Holmes's place.

The dress she was wearing was the only fancy one she had brought with her and was therefore chosen for the occasion. Curious as to what she would find inside, Kyrie pulled open the zipper and found a few articles of clothing. First she pulled out a simple soft pink pencil dress. Not entirely in the style she liked, but it would do. Next she found a pair of stockings, some toiletries and a little gift-wrapped package.

Kyrie quickly tore the flimsy paper away and then her breath caught in her throat. When she finally remembered to breath, she could feel the blood rush to her cheeks. A handwritten card lay on top of a scandalously provocative piece of nightwear. She snorted when she read the words 'Enjoy the wedding night. Mycroft'. "Ass!" She exclaimed loudly, causing Mrs Hudson to look up in surprise. Kyrie arched a brow at Mrs Hudson and held up the lingerie, a short negligee, completely and utterly see-through.

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson mumbled as she brought her fingers to her lips in contemplation. "I think even saints would have a hard time not being tempted by that."

What the hell had Mycroft been thinking? Giving her… this! Then she remembered Sherlock's reaction earlier and she glanced in the direction of the living room, where they had left him and John behind. Suddenly all of her nerves, which had been on edge the entire day, relaxed and she felt relief wash through her, flooding away those dark thoughts and fears and memories.

First Kyrie couldn't repress a grin, then she started to chuckle, then she had to brace herself as she burst into peals of laughter. Mrs Hudson didn't fare any better as she was furiously fanning herself to get a grip. But every time they looked at the negligee they succumbed to another laughing fit.

"I can't wear this!" Kyrie managed to choke out.

"Oh, why not? Who would know but you?" Mrs Hudson countered.

"I might just as well wear nothing!"

"I do believe that's the point," Mrs Hudson winked. Kyrie started laughing again before a sudden thought sobered her up.

"Mrs Hudon… is Sherlock the type who would want to investigate a ruckus like this and you know… barge in without knocking?"

The small gasp her comment elicited from the older woman told Kyrie enough and she quickly hid the flimsy piece of cloth away in the valise. For good measure she positioned herself right on top of the valise. For a moment they both stared at the closed door in utter silence.

When nothing happened, both women started laughing again at the absurdity of the situation until suddenly the door did fly open and Sherlock appeared in the doorway.

With a startled shriek Kyrie toppled over sideways and Mrs Hudson nearly ate her hand in an attempt to keep a loud guffaw at bay.

"Something going on?" Sherlock asked dryly, but the brief look of bewilderment before he managed to compose himself didn't go entirely unnoticed. Kyrie smirked as she straightened herself and cheerily said, "Nope!"

Sherlock eyed the two with a look of suspicion before he quickly scanned the room, probably trying to find the source that brought on so much hilarity. There was a small flicker in his eyes that caused Kyrie to sober up again. She wasn't sure why, but she had a feeling that, no matter how Sherlock presented himself to the world, he was actually quite self-conscious about some things. Not wanting him to think they just had fun at his expense, Kyrie decided to tell him a bit of the truth.

"Mycroft sent me a little gift," Kyrie explained. Mrs Hudson coughed, but it sounded an awful lot like the attempt to stifle a laugh.

"Why would that dissolve both of you into a fit of hysteria? I'm surprised the zoo keepers haven't shown up yet to reclaim a pack of missing hyenas." The bored tone was back again, but it didn't bother Kyrie.

"It wasn't a very nice gift," Kyrie said, which caused Mrs Hudson to snicker. Sherlock didn't say anything, he just seemed a bit annoyed at the situation and started to turn around.

"Sherlock, wait!"

He didn't respond immediately, but he did stop his movements before he turned around to acknowledge her call.

"Err… Mycroft forgot to pack something for the night." Kyrie had barely finished her sentence when Mrs Hudson suddenly excused herself from the room, leaving the two of them alone. All of a sudden Kyrie felt pretty self-conscious herself, she could almost feel herself shrink under Sherlock's gaze. His only response was to walk around the bed, without saying a word, and rummage through one of the dresser's drawers. When he turned around, he carried a grey night shirt and a pair of plaid pants with him. He walked up to her and offered her the sleep wear.

"Thanks," she muttered softly and couldn't help but notice that, although they looked cheap and simple, the fabrics felt luxurious to the touch. Sherlock simply nodded his head and then started to walk away to let her retire for the night. Before he could close the door behind him, she stopped him one last time.

"I'm sorry," she said. It was a simple apology, but the words were no less sincere. "I'm sorry you got dragged into all of this. You didn't have to, you could have said no." Kyrie tried to suppress a shudder as a bleak vision of what her fate might have been flashed through her mind. She half expected him to completely agree with her, to be mad at her, to hate her for being there. Instead, it seemed like in his mind he reached a similar conclusion. He levelled his eyes with hers and for a moment Kyrie could feel herself get scrutinised by him again.

"So could you," he finally said, before closing the door

Kyrie warily eyed the closed door for a moment, a small part of her still afraid that Sherlock would return and say something like: "Hey, it's me, Sherlock, your hubby. I've changed my mind and I'm here to exact my rights as your husband to shag you senseless!" Of course nothing of the like happened and Kyrie shook her head at those absurd thoughts. She turned off the lights and snuggled into bed, burying herself underneath the sheets and covers.

Oh Lord, that felt good! Now that she could finally rest her limbs and muscles, she could feel just how uptight she had been the entire day. Her eyes all of a sudden felt too heavy to keep open and she allowed them to softly flutter closed. As she breathed in she could smell the faintest of traces of perspiration, a bit of a chemical smell and spices, warm spices. For some reason if made her feel oddly safe, just as she drifted off in slumber.


	3. Upset

Chapter 2

Her peaceful sleep got rudely interrupted when the door slammed open and someone strode inside with complete disregard to her still slumbering form in bed. Kyrie bolted right upside with a startled shriek and then spat out a clump of hair. Yuck!

"Good morning," the deep baritone sound of Sherlock's voice greeted her. "I'd say 'I trust you slept well' if not for all the tossing and turning you did. Your bad dreams kept me awake."

Kyrie swallowed the words 'Good morning, yourself' and just glared at the person responsible for her rude awakening. Okay, so it wasn't as peaceful a sleep as she had thought. If Sherlock noticed her lack of greeting, he didn't let it show, he just sauntered towards his closet to pull out a shirt and suit. He dumped the garments on the bed and walked around it to find socks and a pair of briefs from the dresser.

She just watched him pad about the room as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do. Well, it probably was, but she was pretty sure he wasn't used to doing this while someone else was occupying his bed. His hair was messy and tousled by sleep and he yawned unabashed while he scratched the back of his head right before he disappeared into the bathroom.

A few moments later she could hear the sound of water begin to jettison from the shower head. Immediately Kyrie jumped out of bed and fled the bedroom. She had no desire what so ever to be confronted by a half-naked male, if he actually had the decency to cover himself up with a towel. Something she seriously began to doubt due to his lack of decorum showed so far.

A tight feeling on her scalp began to demand her attention and she moaned in disgust when she found out she had just passed out in bed, without removing the pins from her hair or even bothering to clean her face. She was just in the process of pulling the pins from her hair when her eyes fell on her phone, still sitting on the arm of the chair where she had left it the night before.

Ugh, she really had to keep in mind not to leave her phone out and about. Not while she was suddenly forced to co-exist with other people in the same flat. As if someone knew her attention was drawn to her phone, a ring tone alerted her to an incoming call. It was the musical part of the 'Ronde du veau d'or'. Kyrie didn't know whether to laugh or roll her eyes. In the end she did both and she shook her head as well for good measure. Well, obviously someone had been playing with her phone! She didn't need to check the caller ID to know the identity of the person calling her. She quickly accepted the call.

"Good morning, Mycroft!" she greeted her brother-in-law.

"Good morning, sister dear." Kyrie rolled her eyes at the lazy drawl of his voice. "I trust you slept well?" She snorted when Mycroft pretty much used the same words as his younger brother had just a few moments ago.

"I did, thanks Mycroft. Though I don't think your brother would agree. He's cross at me for keeping him awake with my tossing and turning."

"Do I even want to know?"

"Sorry, Mycroft. Just bad dreams. Thankfully none that I can remember though."

Mycroft fell silent on the other end of the line and it took him a sweet moment before he cleared his throat. "Err… I feel an apology is somewhat in order. My little… gift. Though it was meant as a harmless joke, I later err… well, it occurred to me you might be offended by it after, well… you know."

Kyrie smiled. It was endearing to hear a man like Mycroft make an effort like that, to take the 'feelings' of someone else into consideration. He seemed to be quite allergic to them.

"It is fine, Mycroft. I actually liked the gift. It…" she sighed, trying find the right words, "I wasn't exactly in a good place last night. Though I do agree it was in really poor taste," Kyrie couldn't resist to mildly scold him, "It relieved my anxiety and Mrs Hudson and I had a good laugh about it. And that, Mycroft, was the real gift, because I really, really needed that at the moment."

Another moment of silence. "Oh," was finally his reply, sounding oddly falsetto, "Ok then, err… have a good day."

"You too, My… Do you mind if I call you My?"

"I do, actually - "

"Too bad," Kyrie cut him off, "Mycroft is too much of a mouthful. So, My it is."

"Good Lord, you sound just like Mummy. She always insists on calling me 'Myc', can't even finish the bloody name she gave me," he muttered darkly.

"Don't bad mouth your mother, My!" Kyrie warned him, "She's great and you know it."

Mycroft sneezed hard into the phone. "Sorry, sister dear, too much _emotiona_ _l_ interference on the line. Ta-ta."

Kyrie snickered as she ended the call. She glanced in the direction of the bed room, longing to be able to take a shower herself. Ah well, first order of business, tea. She walked to the open kitchen, taking her phone with her, and groaned at the sight. The table was a mess of vials and jars and instruments. Someone hadn't even bothered with a half-hearted attempt to clear at least a small portion of the table. The kitchen counter was pristine though and Kyrie suspected Mrs Hudson's hand in that.

Kyrie started rummaging through the different cupboards to get herself acquainted with its contents. She found a small box with a few teabags still sitting inside. She resolutely pushed it to the side. There was also a tea tin with loose leafed tea, but she scrunched up her nose when she discovered its contents. Looked like an Assam and not a very good one. For now it was what she would have to work with, but Kyrie intended to remedy the tea situation very soon. She found a teapot, something that could pass for a strainer and she put the electric kettle on.

While she waited for the water to boil, she removed the remaining pins from her hair, letting her tangled, unruly blonde mane cascade down her back to right below her waist. She then proceeded to massage her sensitive scalp with just the tips of her fingers to relieve some of the pain caused by the tight hairdo.

She quickly washed and dried her hands and poured the hot water over the tea in the pot. To keep herself busy while waiting for the tea to infuse, she tried to comb the thick strands of her hair with her fingers. She would need a shower, a good conditioner and a brush to really get her hair tangle free, but for now she tried to do her best.

She started to hum a little and closed her eyes as she finally started to feel a bit more like herself after everything that had happened. Her hum slowly started to develop and Kyrie could feel the need rise in her to give voice to her emotions by singing.

Her mouth opened, but before the notes came, her eyes flew open as well. For a moment she saw Gerulf leering at her again from the depths of the shadows. No… never again. Her voice had attracted something so vile and wicked, she never wanted to experience that kind of fear and humiliation again. Which meant she could never lose herself like that again. And it made her indescribably sad. A quiet hum, a soft lament, it was all she would permit herself. Even then she had to take care.

"That sounded really sad. Are you okay?"

Kyrie gasped and nearly toppled from the kitchen chair at the unexpected sound of John's voice.

"Sorry!" John was quick to apologise and he held up his hands with a smile. "Sorry, really didn't mean to startle you like that."

"Err… it's fine, you just caught me off-guard." Kyrie offered John a hesitant smile. It was really weird to think that she was no longer on her own, that she had to live with two men who were both still strangers to her.

"What you just sang, it sounded really sad. Beautiful though, but err… yeah, sad. What was it?"

John seemed to just want to make light conversation, but singing was a bit of a tender point for her at the moment. She didn't want him to notice though so she just shrugged her shoulders.

"Ennio Morricone. I space out sometimes and when I do… I hum." Kyrie jumped out of the kitchen chair and held up the teapot, trying to change the subject. "Tea?"

"Oh, that would be lovely, actually," John said with a shy smile. He obviously felt as weird by the situation as she did. Kyrie poured both of them a cup and put a sugar pot on the table.

"Ta," John said as he accepted the cup. There was a moment of silence as they both waited for the moment it was safe to carefully take the first sip. After that first sip they both started to talk at the same time.

"This is great, you make a good cuppa," John complimented her, visibly enjoying the brew.

"Sorry, this is not really up to my standard, there was nothing else but I promise to make it up soon," Kyrie apologized for the poor tea at the same time.

They both laughed a bit and it sounded very forced, as if they had to really make an effort to get along.

"Throws me back to when I first had a look at this place," John said with a grin, "It was a big mess, but I could definitely see the potential. You know, once we got the mess cleared out. And that's what I said, right at the same time that Sherlock said that he saw the potential as well and he had went ahead to move his stuff in.

Kyrie nearly choked on her tea when she had to laugh and tried to take a sip at the same time. John flashed her a cheeky grin and shook his head. He looked away in embarrassment, then suddenly he leaned back in the chair and shook his head again, as if he was trying to find something to say.

"Look… this is ridiculous," he said in the end. "Leave it to Sherlock to spring a surprise like this on me. I know this is an awkward situation, Sherlock explained some of the details yesterday evening and… I am so sorry for everything that happened to you."

Kyrie was very interested in the contents of her tea cup, unwilling to look John in the eyes. What she had went through was bad enough, she didn't like people knowing about it as well and bringing it up.

"I can see this makes you uncomfortable and you don't have to worry. This will be the only time I will mention it. You got dealt a bad hand and you are making the best of it. So is Sherlock. He is my best friend, believe it or not. Even though sometimes I would love to strangle him. And trust me, there will be moments that you will want to strangle him as well. But," John said, popping the B a bit, "I will always have his back and by extension that means I will always have your back as well. If you ever do want to talk about things, I'll be here. Obviously."

Kyrie still stared at her tea. "I am really not good at this," she softly started, "But thank you, I appreciate it and it means a lot to me. For now I just… want to get on, you know. Find my footing here and just take it by day. I'm not expecting us to become best friends immediately, but you are…" She paused for a moment. She still found it weird to talk about and refer to Sherlock. In her mind she often thought of him as 'that man', or 'that stranger', that really had to change if she was to find a way forward. "You are Sherlock's best friend so, I hope that in time that we will become friends as well." This time Kyrie looked up at John and she saw nothing but kindness.

"No need to hope, I'm sure of it," John said and he raised his cup to her.

"Ah, we have tea! Odd, Mrs Hudson is never _this_ forthcoming with tea. She's not our housekeeper as she loves to remind us," Sherlock walked into the kitchen and went straight for the teapot with an odd smile plastered on his face. His hair was still a bit wet but other than that he looked like a model who had just stepped out of one of those fashion magazines. Except for the fact that he had quite an unhealthy looking complexion. In a weird way, it suited him though.

"Actually, I believe your wife made the tea this morning," John replied casually. Kyrie tried to hide her face in her teacup as she could feel her cheeks flush. Sherlock stopped his movements immediately at those words, the teapot hovering over his cup. He soon recomposed himself though and poured himself some tea.

"I would prefer it if you didn't call her that," Sherlock said a bit tetchily. "You know what's going on, no need to turn this into something that it isn't, just call her by her name… Kylie." He made a dismissive gesture with his hand as though her name was of little consequence.

John rolled his eyes and sighed in clear annoyance. "Here we go again," he muttered to himself.

For a moment Kyrie didn't know if she should reply and if so, what she should say. Then she got angry. "Well, that's promising," she scoffed, "If that's how you react every time John refers to me as your wife when we're outside, heaven forbid it should reach Gerulf's ears. And at least have the decency to get my name right. I don't know about you, but I would find it fishy if a _husband_ can't even remember his _wife's_ name!"

"It's a name that's not going to stick with me," Sherlock explained, seemingly unfazed by her comment, "same goes for Lestrade. Still can't get his first name right. Graham?" He raised a brow at John.

"Greg."

"Damn, I was sure it was Graham," Sherlock muttered under his breath, "Also," he continued, redirecting his gaze towards Kyrie, "Why do you assume we will spend time outside together?"

The statement was said without any trace of vehemence, but it sounded so cold, so detached, as if Sherlock really couldn't imagine the three of them spending time together. At all. She was just an unwanted factor in his life. She could have the protection of his name, but other than that he wanted nothing to do with her.

Had she expected that at some point love would blossom? No. Had she expected them to become bosom buddies? No. She had gotten plenty of warnings in advance that life with Sherlock would not be a picnic. She had expected that getting to know each other would be a bit bumpy and she had also expected that there would be moments she would really dislike him. She had not expected however that he would treat her like a piece of furniture with complete disregard and without even the smallest hint of intention to at least make an effort to get along.

Kyrie just stared at both the guys, not knowing how to respond or how to act. She felt as if the wind completely and utterly had been knocked out of her. "Oh," she finally said. Ugh, could she sound even more dim-witted if she tried? "I'm sorry, I…" she had trouble translating her jumbled thoughts to coherent speech and had to actually shake her head to keep the gears going. "I was under the impression that we would have at least some dealings or interactions with each other, outside of the apartment I mean." She tried to smile but her muscles only seemed to want to twitch. "I guess I was wrong and I misunderstood. I'll err… I'll have a shower now." Not able to wish them a good day, Kyrie wordlessly turned around, took her phone and headed to the bedroom in a bit of a daze.

Sherlock saw a myriad of emotions flash across her face. He narrowed his eyes in confusion when she suddenly seemed deflected and left the kitchen to take a shower.

It had been a normal question, why did she assume the three of them would spend time together? He had kind of thought she would want to spend time with friends of her own instead of spending time with a man she didn't know and his friend whom she knew even less.

"What the actual fuck, Sherlock?" John suddenly lashed out at him.

"What?" Sherlock asked perplexed, "I simply asked her why she would assume we would all spend time together. Why would she even want to? She doesn't know you and she is stuck with a fake husband against her will. I'd think that having to deal with you… and I… around here on a daily basis would be more than enough for her to stomach. So, WHY would she assume to spend time with us? And WHY do you act as if I'm the blackguard. Argh, all these useless emotions running rampant in those tiny little minds of yours," he muttered darkly. He got up from the chair and finished the tea with angry jerky motions to show John he was annoyed with all of it. He stopped to look at his empty cup in surprise. "That was some good tea," he commented.

"You were still an ass to her, Sherlock. She now thinks YOU are the one who doesn't want anything to do with her."

Sherlock snorted, "What on Earth would make her think that?"

" _You_ made her think that, Sherlock!" John cried out. He sounded quite exasperated. "You know, for someone who is supposed to be a genius, you sure are a dumb twat! By some stroke of dumb luck, you are now married to one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen in my life! And she's not even a stuck up arrogant snob like some people I know! She's nice, Sherlock! And I know I just said it, but I will say it again… She is beautiful! I mean, does it even register in that brain of yours how pretty she is?"

Sherlock's eyes widened a bit at the comment. "What does that have to do with anything?" he asked in bewilderment as he grabbed his long coat and wrapped his blue scarf around his neck.

"It has to do with the fact that you are a lucky s.o.b. and you don't even realise or appreciate it," John grumbled, "couldn't your mother have put me forward instead of you? I wouldn't have minded one bit."

Sherlock didn't respond, still mulling over John's words. So, John thought that… what was her name, Kira, was desirable? Interesting. Although not really, John usually thought anything that was female and had a pleasant smile was attractive. Though he had to admit, he was surprised by the length of hair Kira turned out to have. Her hairstyle of yesterday had betrayed nothing of the sort. He tried to see Kira through John's eyes. Or Gerulf's for that matter. He was the chap responsible for this mess. His obsession with someone of the other sex. Sherlock shook his head. No, he still couldn't see it. He was never distracted by feminine beauty or wiles and he scoffed at men who were.

He wordlessly put on his leather gloves, ready to go out and meet Lestrade about a case. The prospect should thrill him, but now he found himself a bit preoccupied. Sherlock suddenly looked up in a bout of abrupt annoyance. See, that was why he didn't do emotions. They were only a distraction from the things that mattered! "You coming, John?" Sherlock yelled over his shoulder as he bounded down the steps.

Kyrie heard the door downstairs slam shut. In response she reclined further into the scolding hot water in the tub. That was something she had not expected, to find a tub. She'd thought that with the small size of the apartment, she'd be lucky to find a decent shower. And then there it was… a little piece of heaven. A place of refuge from the madness outside of this tiny space. Kyrie leaned over the edge of the tub and stared at her phone, within arm's reach, resting on a towel. Her ego was hurt, she was moody, chagrined, she would love to punch something, but she settled for pestering Mycroft. She quickly wiped the excess moist from her hands and grabbed her phone. She sent a simple text. - I hate your brother. KE. Then she returned to her previous position, leaning over the edge of the tub to stare at her phone. Until a happy chime signalled she had received a text.

\- You are not the first and you certainly will not be the last. I thought you would have reached this conclusion sooner. Why are you texting? Mycroft

\- He wasn't this much of an ass sooner. It's faster. KE

\- Get used to it. And I prefer talking over texting. You may want to change that to KH, you are a Holmes now. Mycroft.

Kyrie scowled. So much for emotional support. Maybe she could call Mable? Nah, it would just make her sad. She'd be disappointed to learn this soon that things weren't exactly working out.

\- Friendly heads up, a crew will be coming in shortly to turn that closet into somewhat of an acceptable place for you to sleep. Make sure you are decent when they come. Mycroft.

Kyrie sighed. Time to deal with reality again. She got up in the tub and rinsed herself off. Her body was a bit red from the angry scrubbing earlier. With a shrug Kyrie quickly got out of the tub to dry and dress herself, then she yanked a brush through her now soft locks and loosely braided her hair and just piled it together above the nape of her neck in a low messy bun. Not looking forward to spending the day all by herself, she decided to check on Mrs Hudson. She found the landlady downstairs, cleaning the hallway.

"Good morning, Mrs Hudson," Kyrie said, trying to sound cheerily. Mrs Hudson wasn't having any of it though.

"Good morning, love. What's gotten into you then? You two have had a little domestic?"

Kyrie snorted at the question. "If you could even call it that. A domestic," she muttered softly.

"What was that, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked, clearly preoccupied with cleaning.

"Nothing. Er… Don't be alarmed but Mycroft is sending a crew over today. Apparently Sherlock has a closet in his bedroom that should be able to actually fit a bed."

"That's nice, dear. You'll be able to sleep in your own bed tonight then."

Kyrie scowled. Just no emotional support whatsoever available to her this morning. She still felt like punching and hitting stuff. Or ripping those annoyingly perfectly fitting suits and shirts to shreds.

"Do you happen to have flour and eggs? Milk? Something I can throw together and bake something?" Kyrie asked.

"Oh, so you like to bake things? How wonderful! That should add a nice homely touch upstairs!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed all happy. "Go on, dear. You will find everything you need in my kitchen!" she stated with pride.

"Thanks, can I use your kitchen as well? Don't want to get in the way of Mycroft's crew."

"Of course, of course! You go right ahead, love."

Kyrie looked around in the tiny kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards. Well, the kitchen might be tiny, but Mrs Hudson sure as hell knew how to make the most of small storage spaces. Pushing her sombre thoughts away, Kyrie set to work. She found a big mixing bowl and sorted through the collection of ingredients.

She wasn't in a delicate mood, so no cookies. She needed to knead and pound and really work off all the frustration that was pent up inside of her. Kyrie roughly put a few cups of flour in the bowl and added some sugar and yeast. She mixed the ingredients together while slowly heating water, milk and butter in a small saucepan. When the butter had melted into the milk and water, she poured it over the flour mixture and stirred everything together. Now she just had to be patient, allow the sticky dough to rise. Then the fun would begin.

When the door to the flat opened and men started walking up and down the stairs, Kyrie tried to pay them as little attention as possible. When the dough was ready to be processed, Kyrie floured the surface of the kitchen counter and dumped the contents of the bowl onto it. She added a lightly beaten eggs in, one by one, kneading the eggs through the dough. A pinch of salt, a few more cups of flour and Kyrie vigorously kneaded and worked the dough. She pulled and folded and pushed until her hands started to hurt and her arms started to tremble. Only when the dough felt smooth and soft and elastic, did Kyrie finally stop.

She wrapped the dough in plastic and allowed it to rest and rise further. She cleaned up after herself while waiting for the dough to rise until it had doubled in volume. Again she floured the surface of the kitchen counter and quickly created 3 rolls from the dough, lightly braiding them, tucking the ends underneath. All the actions were practised and perfected. She didn't need to think about what she was doing as she again wrapped the dough in plastic for a last rise and preheated the oven. She prepared an egg wash which she lightly brushed onto the dough before she placed it in the oven.

Kyrie made sure she left the kitchen in as pristine a condition as she found it and, not having heard any noise upstairs in a while, ventured back up to 221B. Instead of checking out her new 'bedroom', she perused the collection of books. A book about chemistry, how surprising, Kyrie snorted and looked at the other books. Plants and herbs, she wanted to bet anything that only the sections about harmful plants were of interest to Sherlock. Oh look, a book about serial killings. Murder, murder, mass murder, murder… Encyclopaedia about Earth, encyclopaedia about minerals and rocks.

Wow, nothing there that was actually 'fun' to read. No, of course not, 'fun' was beneath him. She rolled her eyes at the lack of things to do or read to occupy herself with. Yes, she was testy and she knew it. And she predicted that her mood wasn't likely to change in the near foreseeable future. Plus, she was getting hungry.

"Would it really kill him, just to try and get along?" Kyrie asked herself. But of course no one was there to answer her question. Also, no one was there to listen to her. She turned around the room and was met with a space devoid of human presence no matter where she looked.

At first the words came softly, hesitantly, melodiously, "Piangero, piangero la sorte mia. Si crudele et tanto ria. Finche vita petto avro." Kyrie repeated that verse a few times, lamenting her fate, as Cleopatra had done, her eyes closed.

Suddenly her eyes flared open and her singing became aggressive and deeply passionate, she was outraged, like Cleopatra had been. Her voice trilling and vibrating as she sang.  
"Ma poi morta! D' ogn' intorno, il tiranno e notte e giorno. Fatta spettro agitero, fatta spettro. Fatta spettro agitero."

 _But when I am dead, wherever he goes, tyranny, night and day. Everywhere I will agitate._ She stood there, shaking, breathing heavily, and staring out of one of the windows. For a moment, she saw a face staring back at her, black dull hair slicked away from a gaunt face, green eyes observing her with a heated look, a lecherous smile curling wide thin lips. She gasped and stumbled backwards. When she looked again, the face was gone. But she knew, every time she would sing, he would be watching.

Kyrie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. He wasn't really here and at least the singing had helped get rid of her frustration. She straightened her shoulders and opened her eyes again. He wasn't here. She was safe.


	4. Memories

**A/N Rated M for matured content, also language. This is the chapter with the non-consent scene. The moment Kyrie runs out of the flat and is outside by herself, she will a graphic flashback of what happened to her. Skip to the sentence 'HAVE YOU COMPLETELY GONE INSANE' to skip the scene (or don't read at all) if this is offensive to you.**

Chapter 2-2

Feeling much better, Kyrie went downstairs again. At first she had intended to leave it up to  
Mrs Hudson to take the bread out of the oven, otherwise it could have burned to a crisp for all she cared. Now that she was in better spirits, she decided to take it out herself. Going by the smell, it was all ready and perfect. She would give Mrs Hudson half and take the other half upstairs. It would make for a lovely breakfast the next day. Warm and fresh was always preferable of course, but it would still be very nice.

Kyrie was looking around for Mrs Hudson, carrying the half of bread with her. Suddenly the landlady appeared behind her, armed with gloves, a bucket of soapy water and a sponge.

"Ooh, that smells heavenly! The boys are in for a treat!" Mrs Hudson said beaming. Kyrie offered her the bread. "This half is for you Mrs Hudson, thank you for allowing me to use your kitchen," she said with a smile.

Mrs Hudson was all smiles and flailed her free hand around a bit. "Oh you! If I didn't have my hands full I would give you a hug! Dash the dirt!" She gestured Kyrie to follow her back to the kitchen where Kyrie was ordered to sit down.

"I am not going to wait till tomorrow to try this dear, it smells so nice and it's still fresh and warm! Ooh, will you look at that!" Mrs Hudson practically crooned as she cut off a slice for the both of them. She got butter, cheese, marmalade and honey out and the two of them giggled while enjoying the freshly baked treat.

"I didn't know you liked opera," Mrs Hudson commented in between bites, "I'm not very partial to it myself, but I did like what you had on. Could have done with a bit of music though. I'm not fond of that… a capella sort of thing."

Kyrie nearly choked on a bite of bread, before furiously nodding her head in agreement. She hadn't thought of Mrs Hudson being able to hear her singing!

"Do you know what it was about?"

Kyrie smirked and swallowed the bite of bread. "It's um, about a promise, of sorts."

"Oh, it sounded so angry though!"

"Yes, well… it was a kind of angry promise. The song perfectly suited my mood!" she grinned at Mrs Hudson who started to chuckle.

"Well, I'm glad to see you feel better now. Have you checked your new room yet?"

Kyrie's smile dropped from her face. "Not yet," she said softly, "I will see it eventually. Not really feeling like it now."

"Aw," Mrs Hudson clasped her hand over Kyrie's, "Don't you worry, love. Every couple has domestics, it will pass."

Kyrie arched a brow at the elderly woman. Did Mrs Hudson really just refer to her and Sherlock… as a couple? She rolled her eyes at the thought. Avoiding other tetchy subjects, Kyrie spent the rest of the afternoon with Mrs Hudson. Just chitchatting away and giving her a helping hand around the flat. It wasn't like she had anything else to do since Mycroft had resigned her from her job as a personal assistant, claiming it was now too far out of the way for him to be able to protect her effectively.

When darkness fell, Kyrie pondered the thought how the day, despite its bad and slow start, had seemed to have just flown by. She wished Mrs Hudson a good evening and climbed up the stairs to 221B. She had no idea about Sherlock and John's lifestyle, but certainly they had to show up at some point, right? For dinner? She gasped at the thought. Oh, she really hoped they hadn't expected her to whip up something. Kyrie was pretty certain that she would find the few possessions she owned in her new room, including her wallet, but she didn't have that earlier and she didn't even know her way around town and… Wait, Sherlock and John could both sod off with their expectations! After the way she had been treated this morning, she was expecting dinner to be on one of them!

She bit her lip in doubt when she thought back to Sherlock's callous words that morning. They had talked about interacting outside of the apartment, but what about inside? Surely they would have their meals together?

Kyrie flopped down in the couch at the far end of the room when she heard the door downstairs open. She had no idea what to expect. She just hoped that at least John would have thought about getting something for dinner.

She heard footsteps bounding up the stairs, a deep rumbling laughter and a jovial lighter one. The boys had returned. The door to the living room opened and John was talking animatedly and Sherlock seemed to be a completely different person. That had to be the first time she saw an actual genuine smile grace his lips. It made him look kind of… attractive. Until his gaze fell on her. The gaiety was suddenly gone and an awkward silence filled the room. Great, now she was a mood spoiler. They really had a great way of making her feel welcome.

"So, had a good day?" Kyrie asked to make conversation, her voice a bit edgier than she intended.

"Yeah, sure. Yes," John responded awkwardly while Sherlock muttered something unintelligent, "You?" he asked when Sherlock made no attempt to join in.

"Oh yes," Kyrie returned sarcastically. "I had loads of fun. Okay, um… Not sure if anyone's interested, but I contributed something for breakfast for tomorrow morning. So, any ideas for dinner?" she asked hopefully.

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly when he finally decided to open his mouth, "Oh no, that's not necessary. John and I went out earlier and already had something to eat."

Kyrie just stared at him dumbfounded. She had already had a great sample of his callous attitude, but she never would have guessed that being married to him would mean life in complete solitude, to not be included for anything.

"Oh shit…" She could hear John mutter as he elbowed Sherlock. "We um… didn't think… there's nothing edible here," he hissed. "There's nothing in the fridge but a severed human foot."

"Oh," Sherlock said and for once he actually had the decency to look embarrassed. Kyrie said nothing. She now knew exactly what she could expect from them. Absolutely nothing. She wanted to turn around and leave them alone with a clever pun, but no words came. She just walked out of the room, down the stairs, gaining speed with every step she took, until she finally ran into the dark cold outside.

When she had run for some distance she turned around. She thought she'd heard them call out for her. Why she bothered to look, she didn't know. Maybe part of her hoped that her running off would have shook some sense into them, made them realise they did care. Even if just for a little. But no, she was wrong. No one was calling for her. No one was coming for her either. And so she just kept walking, no idea where she was going and at some point she also had no idea which direction she'd come from.

If she had thought it was dark before, it was certainly dark now. When she started to shiver, she realised she had just ran out of the building wearing nothing but the short sleeved pink pencil dress. No coat, no vest, no anything to keep her warm. And of course she didn't have her phone.

She turned around, shivering a bit more violently as a cold night wind softly blew against her, urging her to walk on. Soft mutterings in the wind. She turned around again and noticed that she literally had no clue as to where she was or where she had to go. Kyrie tucked her hands underneath her axillae and hugged herself in a feeble attempt to stay warm.

" _You my dear…"_ she heard a voice say behind her. She whipped around but saw no one. Now that it was completely dark, and cold, and she had lost any form of orientation, she started to feel scared and alone.

"… _are utterly delicious,"_ a voice whispered against her ear. Kyrie yelled and whirled around, again seeing no one, she was still alone. With her memories. "No, stay away," she whispered, "Leave me alone."

" _I think…"_

"NO!" Kyrie yelled louder. "You are not really here!"

She stepped back, getting pulled deeper into a memory she just wanted to forget.

" _I shall make you mine…"_

Her back hit a wall and Kyrie shrieked, she stretched out her hands in an attempt to defend herself. An aroused moan near her ear, again she could feel Gerulf's tongue dragging along her cheek. His moist lips kissing her. She tried to conjure that other memory but it wouldn't come. She only saw Sherlock's mocking eyes, a calculating cold smirk around his lips. Her mind reeling, the past events suddenly came flooding back.

"No, no, no," Kyrie whimpered, "Please not this again."

She gasped as she remembered the feeling of dread when a hand had gripped her throat, alone in the dark, slowly squeezing, making it hard to breathe. All of a sudden she was back, back in the hallway at George and Mable's place…

She had just went downstairs to get herself something to drink. She was only wearing a short cotton nightgown, figuring no one would notice her because everyone had already retired for the night.

Before she knew what was happening, she got forced against the wall and she gasped as the back of her head smacked against it. Gerulf's face loomed in front of her, his hand like a steel manacle locked around her throat, only allowing her the smallest of breaths to stay conscious.

"You my dear, are utterly delicious. I think I shall make you mine," Gerulf said, his voice thick. He licked her cheek, pressed moist kisses against her temple. He pressed his lower body against her, confronting her with the evidence of his arousal. His breathing was uneven and started to get a bit ragged and more urgent when he slipped his hand in her nightgown, cupping the bare flesh of her breast, flicking at the nipple with his thumb.

Kyrie struggled against him, but it just made him squeeze harder, causing her to feel light headed until she saw spots of light dancing in front of her eyes. He pulled his hand back out of her gown, just to pull up the hem so he could press his erection tighter against her. "I will have you," he grunted near her ear as he started to grind his hips against her.

She gave up clawing at his hand and instead started to feel along the wall. If she could just find something, anything! Her hand came in contact with a solid object, she had no clue what it was, she just hoped it would make a lot of noise when she suddenly ripped it from the wall and let it clatter against the stone tiles with a loud noise. It startled Gerulf for a brief moment, allowing Kyrie to force one strangled cry for help from her bruised trachea. Gerulf growled in anger and slapped her hard across her face before he wrapped his fingers around her throat again. "Don't try that again!" he hissed, while banging her head against the wall. "You will be mine," he growled and Kyrie could hear him pull the zipper of his pants down, "I will own you and you will like it."

He placed feverish kisses in her neck while his free hand fumbled between his legs. Kyrie tried to make a noise loud enough to alert someone, but she managed nothing more than a few pitiful whimpers. Gerulf shoved his hand between her legs and impatiently pried her panties to the side. "Yes," he moaned against her, "Oh yes, get ready for me..." He spit in his hand and after a brief moment she suddenly felt his cock, wetted with his saliva, boldly rub against her entrance, her breath hitched in her throat, tears streaming down her face. "Mine… all mine," Gerulf managed to whisper as he slipped his cock inside of her and then braced himself, clearly savouring this moment.

"HAVE YOU GONE COMPLETELY INSANE?" An angry yell cut through the darkness as Gerulf was roughly pulled away from her. It was the son of Mable and George Holmes, Mycroft. Kyrie sagged down the wall and started to cry, her voice broken and hoarse.

A cold blast of wind hurled Kyrie back to the present. She was alone, somewhere in a dark alley, her back pressed against a wall, her hand pressed against her mouth to prevent her from wailing in anguish. She wished she hadn't run away because of her bruised ego. She even wished that Sherlock would come and find her soon and take her home. Even though she had just spent one day and a night at 221B Baker Street, she knew she could make it her home because it was away from Gerulf.  
If Sherlock had said no… She knew what would have happened to her, what would have happened to her over and over again. She also knew she would never have been able to cope with it.

Kyrie could feel hot tears stinging her eyes. She just wanted to disappear, to not _be_ at all. She could hear the sound of running footsteps echoing through the alley, but she was too tired to look up to see who it was.

"I think I found her," she heard someone say. John? Sherlock? Mycroft? She could no longer tell what was what and who was who. "Oh-kay, this is not looking good," someone crouched in front of her, "Kyrie? Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

She managed to slowly nod her head.

"Look into my eyes, can you do that for me?" It was John, definitely John. Kyrie tried to focus, but his face kind of swam in and out of view.

"Dilated pupils," John muttered and he took her limp hand in his, checking her pulse. "Pulse, weak but rapid. Skin, cold, clammy. Let's get you a bit warmer first, eh?" The next moment Kyrie felt something was draped around her shoulders, something warm and comforting. She shivered lightly and instinctively she snuggled deeper into the folds of the fabric.

"That-a girl, now, take a deep slow breath… In and out. Good, that's good," John kept talking to her in a soft soothing voice. More hurried footsteps echoed through the alley. Kyrie could hear the scraping sound of leather shoes quickly hitting the concrete getting closer.

"Is it her, John? Did you find her?"

Kyrie tried to turn her head in the direction of the voice but John gently forced her to concentrate on taking slow deep breaths.

"Yeah, it's her, give me your coat," John demanded in a tone that brooked no argument. A swishing sound of fabric being shed was heard and then Kyrie found herself enveloped in the warmth of Sherlock's heavy tweed coat. She didn't need to look up to know it was him standing there. She recognised the scent, the same scent of used chemicals and warm spices that had lingered on his pillow.

"What happened? Was she attacked?"

Kyrie heard his shoes shuffle against the concrete, no doubt he was turning in all directions to get a read on the situation.

"I don't think so, but she appears to be in a bit of an emotional shock though," John said, "Her body is shaking in an attempt to release the stress, it will help calm her body down. Let's give her some time before we head back."

Kyrie just stared ahead of her, without really seeing anything. She breathed in the faint smell that was still lingering in Sherlock's coat. It was a smell that, despite the fact that she didn't like him an awful lot, was oddly comforting and reassuring.

"Kyrie," John was kneeling in front of her and gently placed his arm around her shoulder and put his free hand under her elbow, "We are going to take you home now, okay? You are safe and we will keep you safe. And when we get home… we are going to have a little talk, right?"

She looked up and saw understanding and pity in his eyes. He knew. She nodded silently. Well, it couldn't get much worse than this. She hadn't wanted _him_ to know but there was no way back now.

Even though they weren't far from Baker Street, Sherlock stepped in the middle of the road to hail them a cab.

Back in the apartment, Kyrie was guided to John's comfortable chair in front of the fireplace. A fire was lit in it, spreading light and warmth. Kyrie pulled her feet underneath her and Sherlock carefully draped a blanket around her in accordance to John's instructions, before he sat himself down in his own chair opposite her. John placed a big mug of tea in her hands and grabbed a wooden kitchen chair to sit near them.

"Sherlock," John began quietly, "Look at your _wife_ and tell me what you see. What do you know?"

Kyrie ventured a cautious glance at Sherlock. If he was at all annoyed by John referring to her as his wife, he didn't show it at all this time round.

She did notice he and John shared a certain look, almost as if John warned Sherlock not to defy him.

"Her parents were close friends of mine," Sherlock stated softly, but matter-of-factly. "They died a few years back. Kyrie either moved or got a new job. Likely both. It closed the distance between her and my parents to such a degree she decided to contact them. They met before, at least a few times, otherwise an attachment like theirs wouldn't have formed. Not so quickly at least. "

Sherlock paused for a moment and again Kyrie could feel his gaze on her, scrutinizing her. This time it felt different though. The careless disregard seemed… put at bay. Wait… Kyrie looked up in surprise when she realised he had actually gotten her name right. But that was probably because of John.

"She was with my parents for some time. We all know that Mycroft and Gerulf joined the party at some point. And Kyrie drew his attention, somehow. Gerulf is a man with specific tastes. His previous 'objects' of affection were all women who possessed a talent or passion for something. Passion… that is what draws him, he needs to possess it. So, when she was with my parents she showcased a passion, a talent. But what? An instrument? Not likely, she doesn't have the hands of someone who frequently holds, plays, or cares for an instrument. Dancer then? No, my parents don't have the room for her to effectively exhibit an act like that."

Sherlock meticulously laid out the facts of what had transpired not so long ago. And he hadn't even been there to witness it.

"She has a melodious lilt to her voice. John, you commented yourself you heard her sing earlier, so singer it is. Makes sense since both my parents love musicals and concerts. She's very talented, talented enough to be a professional singer, to be able to making a living out of it. Anything less than that and she never would have captured Gerulf's attention. But she's not famous, even though she could be, meaning she never pursued a career in music. Either she preferred a different job, which would belie her passion, or there was something preventing her… stage fright perhaps. Not comfortable singing for a big audience but confident enough to sing for a select company. Like my parents. She felt safe with them. And _that's_ when Gerulf saw her… He and Mycroft walked in on her while she was giving a private concerto for my parents, showing them a side of her she doesn't easily share with others. And it stirred him, moved him. He became obsessed."

Kyrie shivered as Sherlock came closer and closer to the heart of the matter. John placed a comforting hand on hers and gently squeezed it.

"He became so obsessed with her that, after he and Mycroft had left, he came back. And he gave a choice. Either she would have to marry him, or he would orchestrate the death of one, or both of my parents. With his power and influence, it would be easy to design and order a death without the traces ever leading back to him. He used her affection for my parents against her, but he didn't know what lengths my mother was willing to go through to keep that from happening. Gerulf already knew Mycroft, but he didn't know me. My mother does know me of course, so the fact that she still made up that lie… means she was desperate. Meaning, she knew what kind of monster he is. But how would she know that when she had never laid eyes on Gerulf before?"

Sherlock's voice grew softer and more pensive and at some point he seemed to just talk to himself, only half aware there were still other people present. Suddenly he raised his brows and settled his gaze on Kyrie.

"When we found you, John ascertained you were suffering a mild emotional shock. But you weren't attacked tonight and there's been nothing on the police scanner either serious enough or near enough for you to be this affected. A delayed shock then – sometimes it takes hours or even days after the event before the victim suffers any obvious symptoms. That coincides with your stay with my parents. My mother wanted to keep you safe because she knew what he had in store for you. So, something happened… something severe happened between the moment Gerulf made you his new obsession and the moment he came back with his threats. But Gerulf had only been there for a… night," Sherlock popped the T a bit and abruptly stopped talking.

"Go on, Sherlock," John goaded him on, "Make your deduction."

"I think we both know, it's hardly necessary to… it's upsetting for her," Sherlock replied in quiet tone.

"Oh, I do think it's necessary, Sherlock, for you to say it out loud. Because I want to know we are on the same page, you and me. I want to make sure you understand, really understand. I know… you said you wouldn't make the mistake of caring about human lives because caring doesn't save them. I'm not asking you to, I'm asking…" John stopped for a moment, his voice not quite steady. "I'm just asking you to at least care about her," he nodded in Kyrie's direction.

Sherlock gave a quick nod though it was hardly perceptible. "Gerulf… he sexually assaulted you, didn't he?"

"Yes," Kyrie stated simply.

"Did he…?" Sherlock faltered for words and Kyrie was unsure if he was embarrassed by the topic or if he didn't want to upset her by asking out loud. She decided to help him out.

"Rape me?" she asked and she chuckled mirthlessly. "To be honest, I don't know. I mean… if someone puts his cock inside of you, but doesn't get the chance to completely thrust inside… is that technically rape? Or not?"

John muttered a few fowl statements under his breath and for once the great infallible Sherlock Holmes seemed to be at a loss of words. He was probably trying to remember whatever the law said about what exactly constitutes rape.

"He violated you," Sherlock finally said, "That's all I need to know. John, please stay here," he said as he suddenly got up from his chair and threw his coat and scarf on. "I need to have a word with my brother. Oh," he turned around and glanced at Kyrie, "I took the liberty of ordering you some food. You must be hungry if you haven't eaten anything yet. I wasn't sure what you would like so I ordered some Chinese, Indian and pasta."

With those words he opened the door and bounded down the stairs, leaving a completely astonished Kyrie behind. And John.


	5. A New Coat

Chapter 3

The brothers Holmes sat across from each other in Mycroft's office. If you could call it an office, so well furnished and polished it was. It was more a personal study. Two dimly lit standing lamps created a soft play of light and shadows on the faces of both men.

"So, brother mine," Mycroft drawled, a small smile playing on his lips. "You know."

"Yes," Sherlock stated.

"Then you know."

"Yes."

"And?"

"I will be needing a ring."

It was a solitary cab ride back to Baker Street. Sherlock had his gloves in his lap while he thought back to the little conversation with his elder brother. Though they never saw eye to eye, they had always needed a mere few words to be able to understand each other with complete clarity.

"So, you know," his brother had asked him, referring to the appalling dealings his… wife… had suffered at Gerulf's hands. "Then you know…"

And Sherlock did know. He knew that if Gerulf found out his marriage to Kyrie was a sham, that the marriage had never been consumated… Kyrie would suddenly perfectly fit his perverted interests again. And the only one standing between him and legally finishing what he had started that night, by forcing a marriage, was a very alive Sherlock. He glanced at his left hand, at the small gold band around his ring finger. For the outside world, they would have to be the epitome of a happily married couple. Both of their lives depended on their acting skills.

Next morning Sherlock was scouring the newspapers. He was still wearing his pyjamas and a dressing gown. There was no pressing matter at hand and there was enough time to get dressed for the plans he did have. The scouring of newspapers was a bit of a ruse to appear busy.

Kira was standing behind the stove, preparing a simple fry-up for breakfast. The smell of the different ingredients wafted through the apartment. He was hoping John would make an appearance soon, though knowing him, the smell of a freshly prepared breakfast would most certainly lure him downstairs.

Sherlock shot a few sideway glances at the woman that was his wife. He had no idea how to carry himself around her. She wasn't a Sally Donovon he could just offhandedly dismiss. She also wasn't a Molly Hooper who didn't seem to care how he carried himself around her. She wasn't a client he could detachedly make observations about and she certainly wasn't a Mrs Hudson, pretty much the only woman he felt comfortable around. She wasn't his friend, she wasn't really his wife. She was just there in a context he failed to get a good handle on.

Other than the social required platitudes this morning, they hadn't shared a word of conversation. She had just started padding about. First a visit downstairs after which she had come up with her arms full of ingredients. Then she had simply started to prepare breakfast.

She had casually swept half of her long hair in a sort of knot behind her head, where it cascaded down her back with the rest of her hair. It wasn't straight, but not very curly either. Just a few loose curls at the bottom. This morning she was wearing a simple cream top with a bit of a shimmer, slim fitting black pants and a pair of practical but stylish leather boots. He deduced that she preferred a simple but elegant dressing style.

She was slim but did not have the physique of someone frequenting a gym, she lacked the toned muscles but did have shapely legs. It was an odd sensation to discover he found simple pleasure in watching her go about her way.

"Oi, something smells good. Breakfast I hope," John said hopefully as he sauntered into the living room, "Morning, Sherlock, morning…" he stopped dead in his tracks when his gaze fell upon Kira, a look of open admiration on his face. He cleared his throat and made his way to the kitchen to sit at the red kitchen table.

"Morning, Kyrie," he tried again. Sherlock pursed his lips in annoyance. Kyrie! Why wouldn't that name just stick with him? He decided to join John at the opposite end of the kitchen table, feeling a bit more in his element now a factor was present he was familiar with. He stretched out his legs and his fingers started to drum involuntary against the surface of the table. He was waiting for John to start a conversation. He did not disappoint.

"You got plans for today, Sherlock?" he asked casually.

Sherlock ceased drumming his fingers abruptly. "Yes, actually," he replied, "I have some shopping to do."

John snorted at the comment, "You and shopping? That'll be the day!"

Sherlock shot him a look of indignation, "I don't see why that is so surprising. I shop! What about you, anyway? Anything _exciting_ planned for today?" he couldn't help but sound a bit condescending.

"Just taking over a few patients for Dr Manning."

"Boring," he muttered under his breath, but John chose to ignore that remark completely.

"Wow, this looks amazing, Kyrie! Ta!" John exclaimed when Kyrie, that was it, put a plate in front of him. On it were a few strips of fried bacon, slices of fried tomato, fried mushrooms, a fried egg sunny side up and a few slices of bread, oddly not fried. Kyrie then offered Sherlock a similar plate. He recoiled visibly at the thought. "No, thank you, just scrambled eggs and buttered toast for me please."

Kyrie lightly rolled her eyes and took the offensive plate away. His comment earned him a kick in the shins. Sherlock scowled at John and mouthed the word 'What?'

"Stop being rude!" John leaned over and hissed quietly. Sherlock shot him a glare and leaned over as well. "How is that being rude? I don't like…" John coughed, cutting Sherlock off. He probably hadn't said those words as quiet as he thought.

A light chuckling noise made them both look up in surprise. "It's okay, John. Sherlock can have scrambled eggs if he likes. Not everyone likes a full breakfast. I shouldn't have made assumptions."

Sherlock arched a brow at John and smirked in triumph. Soon Kyrie put a different plate in front of him with scrambled eggs and a slice of buttered toast. She served them tea as well and put glasses and a carton of orange juice on the table before she sat down at the side of the table, between him and John, taking the plate she had previously offered Sherlock.

John immediately tucked in with gusto and moaned in appreciation. "This has to be the best breakfast ever," he muttered between mouthfuls of food, "Absolutely beats Speedy's!"

Kyrie smiled shyly at him and started eating herself. Sherlock carefully tried a bite of the scrambled eggs. They were light and fluffy and seasoned to perfection. He wordlessly started eating and glanced at Kyrie in silent contemplation when he got around to taking a bite of the buttered toast.

" _I contributed something for breakfast tomorrow,"_ she had said the night before. He recognised home baked bread when he tasted it. This bread wasn't from a bakery, she had made it herself.

John kept commenting how delicious the food was, so much so that it should make up for the fact that Sherlock offered very little in way of compliments himself. Judging the smug grin she graced him with when he gave back his empty platter, she didn't seem too overly concerned by it.

John, ever the gentleman, offered to help doing the dishes but Kyrie waved him away. "You go tend to your patients," she said and Sherlock recognised the faraway look in her eyes. A look that said she wanted to be left alone. He quickly excused himself to get dressed. He would take his time and hopefully that alone time would be enough for her, for they would be spending a great portion of the day in each other's company.

Kyrie sighed in relief when John didn't persist on helping her washing up and did in fact leave to go to the practice where he, at least temporary, filled in for Dr Manning. She wasn't entirely sure, but she got the impression that Sherlock had picked up on her visible cues she needed to be alone with her thoughts. Whatever his reason had been for him to quickly excuse himself, she was grateful for it.

As her hands set to the task of cleaning up the kitchen table and washing up the plates, utensils and whatever else they had used, her mind wandered back to the night before...

John and Kyrie were sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the three different dishes that had been delivered. There was Gong Bao chicken with fried rice, chicken tikka masala and a spaghetti Bolognese.

"Just out of curiosity," John asked, "Did he get any of this right? Do you like any of these dishes or, or… is he dead wrong for once?"

Kyrie was still reeling from the impact of the sudden flood of memories and the emotions that came with them. She just stared at the dishes without really seeing them. Only when she suddenly heard John say that everything would be okay, did she notice that tears were rolling down her cheeks. She sniffed and wiped at the tears.

"I don't see how," she said quietly, "He broke me…" she said, referring to Gerulf, and shuddered. "He," she closed her eyes and gulped, trying to steady her voice, "he took away everything. My sense of self, my joy, my direction. I feel," she stopped again when her voice threatened to break and she took a few shaky breaths, "so lost, alone and… empty. I sang this afternoon, it helped, but… it's not the same. Somehow, when I sing he is there again and..."

"No," John disagreed with her. "We can't have that. From what I understand, you have a great gift and you are not letting that gift go to waste. I know that what happened to you was very traumatic, I get it. I understand. I still have bad dreams at night about Afghanistan. I joined the army looking for adventure and excitement. I got injured and when I returned I was disillusioned, a weak and broken man.

"I had a limp and couldn't walk without a cane. My return put an end to my dreams of an adventurous life. It just wasn't meant for me. Till I met Sherlock. My prospects changed the day I met him and became his flatmate. He didn't have to, but he allowed me to participate in his adventures. For the arrogant, unfeeling bastard he can be, he gave me back my leash on life. My wounds healed, so did my spirit. No more cane."

He paused for a moment. "What I mean to say, is you are with us now. And you are safe here.  
We will keep you safe. I'm not saying that being around Sherlock is completely without danger. Honestly, it's a life threat. Hanging around him is like walking around with a damn bull's-eye on your back. Sometimes it's like you're dealing with a five year old," he said with a smirk. "But it's never boring, never dull. Not for me at least. For all of their flaws… I do know this, with both Sherlock and Mycroft at your back, Gerulf will never be able to lay a hand on you again. I shudder at the thought of what they _wouldn't_ do to keep you safe. And then there's me of course."

Kyrie smiled at him and she knew she had just made a new friend. She picked up a fork and first tried a bit of the spaghetti. She chewed and tasted the flavour, contemplated its texture… "It's not bad, but I prefer my own Bolognese," she said casually before trying the tikka masala.

"Wait, you make a better Bolognese than Angelo?" John asked. She shook her head vehemently at that. "No, not saying that at all. Just that I prefer my own," she explained.

"You got me curious now," John muttered. "How is the tikka masala?"

"That's really good, actually," she replied before trying the Gong Bao chicken. "Hmm, good too. Just… bit too spicy for me." With those words she pulled the tikka masala to herself and nodded at the other two dishes, letting John decide for his own if he wanted to share a second meal.

"Don't mind if I do," John said and picked the Bolognese. "Sherlock can have the Gong Bao chicken when he gets back and if he still feels like it. So, singing…" he said after a while. "What do you sing then?"

Kyrie shrugged her shoulders. "Stuff," she said with a shy grin. John snorted at that. "Come on, musical songs? Sherlock said his parents like that."

She smiled at him. "Sometimes, but it's not what I love to sing the most."

"All right, err… give me a hint. Because something tells me you are not about the contemporary pop scene. Fado? French chansons?"

She pursed her lips for a moment, regarded John carefully. Should she? Could she? Just a bit?

"L'amour, l'amour," she started softly, then her voice rose high as she sang those words once more, smiling when she saw the shocked look on John's face.

"I know that somehow. Why do I know that?" he asked.

"L'amour est enfant de Bohême, il n'a jamais jamais connu de loi. Si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime.  
Si je t'aime, prends garde à toi!" she continued and then laughed at the look on John's face.

"Oh my God! That… That is amazing! Now there's only one way for me to be able to die and rest in peace."

Kyrie arched her brow at him. "Before I die," John said, "I want to hear you sing while Sherlock plays the violin."

"He plays?" Kyrie asked in wonderment.

"Oh yes, quite well actually. If he doesn't decide to troll and make the strings sound like a cat being flayed. What is your favourite song, or aria or… how do you call it?"

"My absolute favourite… It's unusual though because it's actually a baritone aria. I just love it so much… It's Largo al factotum."

"Yeah, that means absolutely nothing to me," John said sheepishly.

"Trust me, John, you know it. Everyone knows it!" Kyrie took a deep breath and just sang the first words of that oh so famous aria. "Largo al factotum della città. La la la la la la la LA!"

John let loose a guffaw and Kyrie grinned at him. "You do realise I want to hear the entire thing now? Including the 'Figaro, Figaro, Figaro, Figaro'."

"Maybe one day," she acquiesced, but John shook his head. "No. Not one day. Soon. I'm not a begging man but I am going to beg and whine every day until you give in.

I am not going to pretend I'm a fan of opera, but this I just need to hear. Then again, I never knew I could appreciate the violin until I came here either. On the other hand, Sherlock does make me wish the instrument was never invented sometimes."

Kyrie smiled thinking back to the easy conversations last night. Because of John, she had been able to shake off most of the fear and sorrow. Whatever else would happen, she now knew she could count on Mrs Hudson and John to help her through whatever grief she experienced. It was very comforting and countered her feelings of insecurity.

"Are you ready?"

Her mouth went dry, hearing the deep baritone of Sherlock. He still made her nervous, because she knew his mood was very fickle. Usually she wasn't this affected by the mood swings of someone else, but after everything that had happened, she was more sensitive. She turned around to face him and found he was staring at her with an unreadable expression on his face, his arms crossed as he leaned against the door frame. She nodded in affirmation.

"Oh, don't look so scared, it doesn't suit you. I'm not going to eat you," Sherlock said a bit annoyed as he pushed himself away and stalked towards the living room where he donned his big Belstaff coat and blue scarf. He shot her a glance that was as unfathomable as the rest of his complexion while he put on his leather gloves.

"Well?" he suddenly asked impatient, "Are you joining me or not?"

"For what?" Kyrie asked in surprise and tried to ignore it when Sherlock rolled his eyes as if she was a moron. "You know perfectly well what for, I told you my plans this morning."

"You told John," she countered.

"You were there as well, were you not? Not my problem you weren't listening," Sherlock muttered. When Kyrie didn't move he sighed. "You ran out of the door last night without a coat, the suit case you brought with you is small and likely only held a fresh change of clothes and some toiletries, no room for a coat. Among the few clothes Mycroft sent over from my parents, there was a coat but it is not sufficient enough to keep you warm. So, we go out shopping. Any other questions?"

"I don't have the money to just go on a shopping spree because you don't like my coat!" Kyrie spluttered.

"Did I ask you to bring your wallet? No, I didn't," Sherlock said before he threw a ratty looking old vest in her face. "Wear that until we find you something better."

Kyrie scrunched up her nose in disgust, not even wanting to know where he managed to find that old thing. At least it was better than no coat at all. Just a tiny bit. She hurried after him as he already bounded down the steps of the stairs.

"We are going out, Mrs Hudson," he yelled to the landlady, "We could be a while!" And off he dashed. A few big strides and he stopped at the curb, glancing around. His eyes lit up when he saw a cab approaching. He held up his hand and bellowed: "Taxi!" and wasted no time in climbing inside when it stopped. Kyrie got inside next to him as Sherlock gave the cabbie instructions.

"Kira?" Sherlock suddenly asked at some point. Kyrie couldn't hide a small smile. "Kyrie," she corrected him.

When they reached destination Sherlock quickly paid off the cabbie and Kyrie quirked an eyebrow in surprise at the generous tip.

He started walking down the street and Kyrie had to adjust her pace to keep up with his long strides. "We should be able to find a few boutiques here that sell a good quality coat," Sherlock said and Kyrie could see his breath form little clouds in the cold, nippy air. Okay, so the vest was much better than no coat at all. She shivered a bit while simply nodding in agreement.

Sherlock was perusing the different shop window displays until he visibly perked up seeing something of interest. "This boutique looks promising," he said and without waiting for a reply he headed to the door. Kyrie wanted to keep walking when she recognised a few high end brands on display.

"But," she started, but whatever she wanted to say got cut off when Sherlock simply grabbed her hand and pulled her inside. The look of disdain on the faces of the two perfectly coiffed shop assistants, with their perfect hair and make-up, made Kyrie wish the ground would open up to swallow her whole.

"My wife had a little accident with her luggage and is in need of a good coat, as you can see," Sherlock said effortlessly as he pulled off his gloves and whipped out his phone to start texting. "I trust you can take it from here?" he asked dismissively.

"Of course," the blond shop assistant simpered sweetly as she nodded at Sherlock's coat, sending her redhead colleague a meaningful look. Kyrie furrowed her brows because she knew they would try to get Sherlock to spend and arm and a leg on her.

The blond got a camel coloured long coat and helped Kyrie in it. Kyrie nearly died of a heart attack looking in the mirror. The coat hung around her like a shapeless bag. Sherlock barely looked up, "Something a bit more tailored, please," he said with a bored voice.

The redhead cleared her throat and helped Kyrie in an even longer dark brown coat, with a high tailored waist and flaring wide around her. It was ghastly. "No," Sherlock simply said. How he even knew what the coat looked like on her, Kyrie had no idea, he seemed to just turn down the suggestion without even looking.

After about half an hour of fitting, Sherlock was getting extremely annoyed while Kyrie was immensely enjoying herself at the expense of the two pretentious shop assistants. After the umpteenth attempt to sell Sherlock on some horrendous looking but extremely expensive coat, he had enough. "Oh for God's sakes!" he bellowed, "Let her pick something for herself, she clearly has better taste than you two!"

Kyrie knew he absolutely had not meant it as a compliment to her, it was just a scathing remark directed at the shop assistants. Just the fact that he gave her indirect praise about her style, made her smirk. She quietly started humming the Habanera from Carmen in content as she looked through the racks and at whatever the mannequins were wearing.

From the corners of her eyes, Kyrie noticed the assistants were busy sorting the new arrivals with scowling looks on their faces, sending a few hateful looks in Sherlock's direction. Kyrie's heart fluttered when one of the assistants took out a coat in a deep burgundy colour and style she immediately fell in love with.

"Can… can I try that one on, please?" she asked softly, gesturing at the coat. The redhead looked down and seemed flustered. "This just got in, it's not even priced yet. But it's very expensive."

Kyrie could feel her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment, "Oh, sorry I'll look for something else."

"Try it on," Sherlock ordered.

"But –"

"Try. The coat. On," he started to sound just a bit bossy.

"Yes, sir," Kyrie muttered under her breath and took the coat that got handed to her. Her heart started beating just a bit faster as she donned the heavy quality coat. It felt divine!

"It's a full skirted coat in a unique high quality Irish wool blend tweed. It has really nice accents with the epaulettes, rain shield and oversize collar. It looks beautiful on you, the waist really accentuates your silhouette," Red said almost reverently.

Kyrie's hands trembled slightly as she tied the dainty sash belt. She looked in the mirror and fell in love all over again, but she couldn't. Sherlock could say what he want, but in this boutique if even the shop assistants themselves warned against the price, she couldn't with good conscience accept it. Kyrie started to undo the sash again, but Sherlock's words stopped her.

"That will do," he said.

"But –"

"That will do," Sherlock repeated himself with a tone that brooked no argument. "It's a fine coat. Now, scarf?" he looked at the shop assistants who immediately scurried away.

"Sherlock, I can't..." Kyrie whispered urgently. "Why not?" The surprise in his eyes amazed Kyrie. Could he really not see how idiotic it was to just spend a fortune on someone you cared little for?

"It's crazy expensive, you can't just –" She got distracted when Sherlock suddenly stepped right in front of her and took the lapels between his fingers to feel the quality, he gave them a little pull so she looked up at him. It was the first time she looked straight up into his eyes. They were pale blue, with a hint of green and a shock of gold around the pupils.

"You need a good coat," Sherlock said softly, drawing Kyrie's attention to his lips, firm and perfectly moulded. "This is a good coat." He turned up the collar and smirked at her. She sniggered before turning it down again. "That's you," she said with a giggle, "Not me."

Sherlock mock grumbled, "Shame… Really?" That last word was directed at Blondie who just came over to them with a small collection of some ghastly looking bits of cloth, supposedly the requested scarves.

"I'm surrounded by idiots," Sherlock sighed with exasperation.

"Wait!" he suddenly exclaimed, turning his head to the side to face Red. "That scarf over there you just wanted to put away, probably because you thought it was boring, it's not, it's perfect, but you failed to see that because you don't observe and you have bad taste evidenced by the loud garish colours you keep presenting us with. Now bring me that scarf!"

Kyrie blinked her eyes twice at the sudden torrent of words that came tumbling from his mouth. Sherlock turned around to take the scarf and for a moment he just stood there, making Kyrie wonder what he was up to now. He then wordlessly whipped around and threw the scarf around her neck, pulling the ends through a single loop and fluffed the scarf in position.

He gently took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face the mirror. Kyrie stepped forward to make sure she was seeing it correctly. Somehow, some way, in a mountain of fuchsia, lime, purple and yellow coloured horrors, Sherlock had spotted a Burberry Lupin scarf that matched Kyrie's eyes perfectly. Soft blue with a touch of violet.

"Anything else, sir?" Red drawled in an overly sweet voice. "Yes," he answered quietly, "gloves."

Fortunately, Blondie was better prepared this time and was able to procure a fine pair of Burberry lambskin gloves. And just like that she was standing outside, braving the cold weather in her new coat, scarf and gloves. The amount Sherlock just had to pay had nearly made her faint, but he had just gently pushed her outside, leaving the old tattered vest behind.

Kyrie stared at her gloved hands in wonder. She had never, ever in her life, possessed such fine clothes as she was wearing now. It all felt quite surreal. Sherlock cleared his throat and suddenly he seemed to feel out of his element.

"Err… This isn't really my area," he started, "I know we have to pretend to be happily married. In case… you know… people are watching," he whispered with an awkward grimace and sounding quite a bit like a conspiracy nut.

Kyrie didn't have a clue where he was going with this, so she patiently waited for him to continue.

"I don't do _holding hands_ ," he finally said. "It's not me, it never will be. But, we have to create some sense of intimacy so… how about this?" With those words Sherlock offered her his arm like a perfect gentleman.

She looked up at him with what she hoped was a warm smile and slipped her hand around his arm to rest slightly above the crook of his elbow. "Much better than holding hands," she said. He blinked a couple of times before he gave her a quick smile of his own. It wasn't the same open, genuine smile she had seen when he was around John, but it was a start.

"I agree completely. Now… Mrs Holmes. How about some lunch?"

Kyrie blinked at the title. Okay, that was new. She squinted at him. "You forgot my name again, didn't you?"

"Yes," he replied immediately and honestly. She just grinned as they continued their walk down the street.

Kyrie insisted on visiting a tea and coffee shop. As she hated coffee herself and absolutely refused to drink it, she left the coffee browsing for Sherlock while she perused the tea offerings herself. When she saw all those different big tins her mouth dropped open. "Be still my beating heart," she whispered reverently and ignored the weird look Sherlock sent her way.

He had already picked what he wanted so Kyrie quickly decided on a few blends as she could see he was getting bored and started to act a bit antsy.

She got a good quality Darjeeling, a nice strong Assam, a green sencha, lapsong souchon just for kicks and the one tea she just always, always needed, a good spicy chai. There were plenty more teas she would like, but she would get around to them.

For now, she had picked the smooth and delicate Darjeeling because she loved it in the morning. She thought John might like the robust and powerful Assam. The green sencha was there for when she was in the mood for a soft, aromatic tea. It was a tea she would love to introduce Mrs Hudson to. The lapsang souchon was mainly to go with or after dinner. It was most definitely an acquired taste but she loved its smoky and earthy character. She was also kind of curious what Sherlock would think of it, if he would like it or if it was too out there for his tastes. And then the chai, ah lovely chai! One of the teas she just always had to have in store.

After a quick lunch in a small luncheon room, Sherlock had actually been quite pleasant to be around, Sherlock got them a cab that brought them back at Baker Street. He even gave a hand carrying up the various little bags.

As they walked across the living room towards the kitchen, Kyrie told Sherlock about the different teas she'd gotten. By the look on his face, the topic held no great interest for him. She smirked when John, who was sitting in his armchair, reading a newspaper, threw her a look of sympathy.

She decided to let Sherlock smell the teas instead of describing them to him. So, before Kyrie stored the different teas in small tins, she let him have a whiff. She giggled a bit when his brows snapped together over his blue eyes when he smelled the lapsang souchon. He was definitely intrigued.

"John, smell this," Sherlock ordered his friend and he held out the paper bag filled with the tea out in front of him. But, John got distracted by something else.

"Holy shit! Sherlock! Is that...? Since when are you wearing a ring?" John cried out.

Kyrie turned around. Ring? What ring? She hadn't even given him a ring! Curiously, she glanced at Sherlock's left hand and... sure enough... there it was... a small gold band.

"Really, you two?" Sherlock drawled. "It must be so dull in those tiny little minds of yours... I've been wearing the ring the entire day! We're trying to sell the fact that this a _normal_ marriage? Can't exactly run around without a ring then, now can I?"

He immediately shoved the tea back into Kyrie's hands and went to sit in his armchair near the fireplace. John was too stunned to say anything. He cast her a curious glance but Kyrie merely shrugged her shoulders. The man was an enigma. She claimed no understanding of the workings of his mind whatsoever.

Sherlock had a bit of a scowl the rest of the evening. Apparently he had no trouble wearing the ring, as long as everyone else would just shut up about it. Only when Kyrie put a cup of freshly brewed Darjeeling tea in front of him, did she detect a small smile on his lips again.


	6. Regal in a Sheet

Chapter 4

It had been a bumpy start for them, but Kyrie started to see Sherlock in a different light when he showed both her and John that he was in fact dedicated to keeping her safe, by wearing the ring. She stopped thinking about him in terms of 'that man' or 'that stranger', but simply as 'Sherlock'.  
As people had warned her, life with him indeed wasn't a picnic. It was at times infuriating, exasperating and completely maddening, but it was also exhilarating and never dull.

John and Kyrie usually took turns in cooking, well… mostly they took turns in cooking and getting take out. John actually was a pretty decent cook but, even though Kyrie was no chef in the kitchen, John felt a bit out of his depth when compared to her. Twice a week she would make a loaf of bread and sometimes she would bake a batch of cookies.

Though Sherlock never complimented her culinary skills, he always cleaned his plate when she had cooked and he was the one who usually claimed the biggest share of the cookies. Only when Sherlock was on a case, he would absolutely refuse to touch any food offered to him. Kyrie quickly learned to plan the baking of cookies around the time a case was about to come to a close.

Though it was impossible to tell what the hell was going on in that head of his, Kyrie liked to think that, in his own little way, he did care for her. He was always up early, so she had the privacy to use his bedroom and he never made her feel awkward about their close sleeping arrangement.

John loved his Assam, Kyrie loved her chai, Mrs Hudson and Kyrie both loved the sencha and to Kyrie's immense surprise Sherlock had taken a liking to an evening cup of lapsang souchon. John said it smelled an ashtray and refused to even taste it.

And every day John would say 'Figaro' to Kyrie at some point and every day she would laugh and say 'no'. Sherlock would look at them with a quizzical look on his face, but never asked for enlightenment.

One morning the three of them each went about their business in the living room. Kyrie was making a grocery list, John was typing on his laptop and Sherlock was audibly slurping his tea while quickly leafing through a newspaper.

"What are you typing," Sherlock suddenly asked, though he sounded as if wasn't the least bit interested in whatever the hell John was doing.

"Blog," John stated simply, not averting his eyes from his laptop screen.

"About?"

"Us."

"You mean me," Sherlock said rather smugly.

"Why?" John asked, still not looking up.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, you're typing a lot," he explained and Kyrie giggled at his comment.

"Thank you, Kyrie," John said dryly. The doorbell rang, which seemed to be what Sherlock had been waiting for as he sprang into action, and wasted no time with further discussion about John's blog.

"Right then," he said while placing his mug on the table with a resounding smack, "So, what have we got?" He stalked away to change from his dressing gown in a neat jacket to receive his clients.

That was pretty much the start of a 'normal day' at apartment 221B in Baker Street.

Kyrie would quietly move over to the couch, usually pretending to finish her list, other times she couldn't be bothered to keep up the appearance. Sherlock receiving clients was pretty much the most entertaining part of the day. Watching clients come and go, one after the other getting rejected because their case wasn't interesting enough. Until that one case would spark his interest and the madness would begin all over again. Usually though, Sherlock found most of his clients to be tediously boring.

Like this pale man, with pale hair in a pale jacket, offering the matter of his wife spending a very long time at the office. "Boring!" Sherlock claimed before ushering the poor man out.

And that stout, bit plain looking woman who thought her husband was having an affair. Sherlock agreed with that idea with a single, "Yes".

Then there was this guy that came over carrying the urn of his aunt, not his real aunt mind you as the man was convinced her ashes had been replaced. Sherlock just told him to leave.

A visit by three men who seemed to have walked straight out of a Godfather movie. "We are prepared to offer any sum of money you care to mention," one of the slick creeps said pompously, "For the recovery of these files." "Boring!"

After each case, John would write his blog. And that was another big source of entertainment for Kyrie, the bickering between John and Sherlock about his blog.

Like the time when those three young guys had come to them with a case…

They had a website about the true meaning of comic books. "Because people miss a lot of the themes," one of them tried to explain. Sherlock was more than ready to show them the door by then, when one of them said the comic books had all started to come true. That was something that peaked Sherlock's interest.

Later, when the case had been solved, John wrote up his blog entry about the Geek Interpreter, making Sherlock lean over John's shoulder, curious about what John was typing. "Geek interpreter, what's that?" he demanded to know.

"That's the title," John explained patiently while typing up the story for his blog.

"What does it need a title for?" Sherlock asked befuddled before stalking off to the kitchen to start some crazy experiment.

John knew how much she enjoyed these interactions and never objected to filling Kyrie in about what happened during the day when she wasn't there. Like the time Sherlock had the gall to ask if people actually read John's blog. Of course people did! Kyrie couldn't get enough of it! "Where do you think our clients come from?" John asked on his turn while Sherlock was up close and personal with a corpse, investigating every inch of the body.

"I have a website," was Sherlock's matter of fact reply.

"In which you enumerate 240 different types of tobacco ash. Nobody's reading your website." John had countered.

Kyrie had toppled over laughing when John told her about that one and she couldn't rest before she had laid eyes on that jewel herself. It actually had been a pretty interesting read, making Kyrie believe she had found an unsung talent of Sherlock's.

Sherlock's reaction to that particular blog entry had been priceless! That was when Sherlock had been in one of his moods and Kyrie had been able to appease him with buttered toast, made from a left over slice of her home made bread.

He came up behind John carrying his newspaper, wearing his best dressing gown, the blue one, and nearly spat out a bite of toast in indignation. "Oh for God's sakes!"

"What?" John asked in feigned ignorance.

"The Speckled Blonde?" Sherlock claimed in disgust and once again Kyrie nearly toppled from her chair laughing.

There were cases that showcased Sherlock's inability to see things from a more humane perspective. Though kind of sad, sometimes it was funny as well. Like when two girls told Sherlock they hadn't been allowed to see their granddad when he was dead and one of the girls had asked, "Is that 'cause he'd gone to heaven?" Sherlock in his infinite wisdom, had deemed it wise to tell the girls, "People don't really go to heaven when they die, they're taken to a special room and burned." Sherlock was a firm believer of telling people the truth, most of the time, not caring or realising if it was age appropriate or not.

There were cases in which a certain Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was mentioned. Someone who, according to John, would ask for Sherlock's expertise. Sherlock said kind of the same, just in more colourful words.

And there were cases even Sherlock Holmes couldn't solve. So, when John created his blog entry 'Sherlock Holmes Baffled', Sherlock was none too pleased about it. "No, no, no, don't mention the unsolved ones!" he exclaimed, dressed in protective clothing, gloves and goggles as he was right in the middle of conducting some form of experiment.

"People want to know you're human," John disagreed.

"Why?" Sherlock demanded to know.

"Because they are interested," John explained.

"No, they're not," Sherlock said dismissively. "Why are they?" he then asked as if perplexed by the fact people were actually interested in his persona. John didn't answer the question. John was being a bit too busy being a smug John.

"Hmm, look at that," he drawled, "One thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five."

"Sorry what?" Sherlock was baffled.

"I reset that counter last night. This blog has had nearly 2,000 hits in the last eight hours. This is your living, Sherlock, not 240 types of tobacco ash."

"243," Kyrie remarked casually as she sipped her tea, while looking from one to the other as the men were arguing. Suddenly she was the centre of attention when two pairs of eyes settled on her in equal surprise.

"What?" she said defensively. "It was interesting!"

"That's what I thought too," Sherlock muttered as he turned on a gas burner and whipped around to busy himself with his experiment.

But John was absolutely right about one thing, it wasn't Sherlock's website that drew the attention and provided the clients, it was John's blog. John's blog had taken the internet by storm and somewhat turned the two of them into local celebrities.

One day the men had returned home from a case, John wearing a tweed cap and Sherlock wearing a deerstalker. Kyrie had never seen such a murderous look on his face.

He had viciously thrown the headgear across the room and had overall been very unpleasant with his foul mood that had lasted the rest of the day.

John and Kyrie had decided to leave him by his own devices and fled the room to have a quiet lunch at Speedy's next door. Of course, Kyrie had kept needling John until he finally caved and told her what had happened…

They had been on a case that day, a murder in a theatre, and Sherlock had mocked John about a possible blog title. "So what's this one?" Sherlock asked in his bored, semi-disinterested tone, "The Bellybutton Murders?"

"I was thinking, The Naval Treatment," John said, which earned him another scuff. That's when Lestrade joined them and warned about the press outside. Sherlock, bless him, thought the press wouldn't be interested in them.

Well, he was wrong about that! Suddenly everyone was interested in the new internet phenomenon, the surly detective who could solve almost every mystery, could peg you down in mere seconds but didn't have the foggiest that Earth revolved around the sun. Kyrie hung onto John's every words and John seemed to enjoy being the centre of attention for once.

Anyway, Lestrade told them that some of the lot outside had requested photographs of the two gents. Sherlock hated the prospect and that's when he made a decision he would come to regret. On the way out, he spotted some theatre props. "Cover your face and walk fast," he ordered John, handing him the tweed cap.

"Still, it's good for the public image, big case like this!" Lestrade tried to get Sherlock to see the positive side, but Sherlock didn't want any of it.

"I'm a private detective, the last thing I need is a public image!" he retorted before putting on the deerstalker, pulling the peak down as far as possible to cover his eyes. When stepping outside he pulled his Belstaff closely around him, flashes of cameras blinding him wherever he looked.

And suddenly his half hidden face was all over the newspapers and Kyrie had found a new hobby. John had his blog, Kyrie had newspaper articles she would cut out and save. She would rather die than admit it, but Sherlock looked absolutely adorable with the deerstalker.

"Not you too!" Sherlock had sighed when he noticed her new activity. "Shouldn't I have some say about your hobbies and interests, you know, as your husband?"

Kyrie had snorted at the remark. "None whatsoever!"

That was basically what her life had suddenly turned in to. A life that revolved around the quirks and eccentricities of Sherlock Holmes. The three of them had established a comfortable way of living together and Kyrie, even with the danger and excitement that came with being around Sherlock, had never felt safer and more secure. Gerulf Schricken was no longer consuming her every conscious thought, though he still held a sway of power over her in her dreams.

Sherlock, as predicted, showed no romantic or sexual inclination towards Kyrie whatsoever, making her feel more and more at ease around him whenever necessity arose to occupy his bedroom with him at the same time.

Life went by so comfortably and uneventfully, that Kyrie started to think that maybe she and Sherlock wouldn't have to stay married for that long if Gerulf would remain this quiet. In fact, life became so comfortable, that Kyrie actually dreaded thinking about it coming to an end. So, she decided to just not dwell on it.

There were times however, that the men, though unintentionally, made her feel like she didn't really belong. After a few weeks of living together, Sherlock still wasn't able to call Kyrie by her actual name and either called her Kira, Kylie, Kaylie, Carla or any similar variation.

And there were times that he and John were so in tune with each other that sometimes, not often, but sometimes, they just kind of forgot about her. But that was all about to change…

Kyrie was cleaning up after the guys in the apartment. Sherlock had thrown his burgundy dressing gown over one of the chairs, pages of newspapers strewn around, he had left milk and his empty tea mug on the mantelpiece…

Okay, so basically she was cleaning up after Sherlock in the apartment. The kitchen table looked like there had been a lab explosion. Honestly, living with Sherlock was like living with someone who believed that leprechauns and elves were responsible for magically cleaning stuff and making sure he never ran out of clean clothes.

Sherlock seemed to have decided to lazy about the entire day and surprised Kyrie by emerging from his bedroom wearing nothing else but the sheet from his bed. He surprised her even more when he even received his client wearing nothing else but the sheet and set up a live video chat with John on his laptop.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked the client. "Oh err, yes please. If it's not a bother,"

"Oh, no. Not at all," Sherlock answered. "The Assam will do nicely, Kira."

Kyrie rolled her eyes and for once decided to not play along. She was scouring the newspaper for some mentions about the boys she could cut out and save. Sherlock turned at her, managing to look regal even when wearing just a plain bedding sheet and looked at her in surprise.

"Kira? Tea?"

Kyrie pressed her lips in a thin smile. Either she wanted him to get her name right, or at least ask for tea nicely. Politely.

"Who's Kira?" she asked snappishly. Sherlock groaned and threw his head back in annoyance before he wandered over, stopping right in front of her, glaring down at her from between his lashes.

"Can we not do this now?" he grumbled. Ah, so he _was_ aware she didn't particularly like it when he kept calling her by the wrong name. "You know my brain is like a hard drive. Only important or useful information is stored in here," he hissed, pointing at his head.

Kyrie just sighed and got up abruptly, forcing Sherlock to step aside. She walked to the kitchen counter without sparing him a second glance. There really was no point in getting worked up over it. She knew by now he didn't mean it the way it sounded. The words still stung though.

Sherlock busied himself with the client, Kyrie busied herself with making a brew and handed the client a cup of strong Assam tea, splash of milk and offered him the sugar and some biscuits. She then handed Sherlock his mug, sans biscuits. She settled herself in the couch and paid no attention to the glare that was shot her way. John was apparently still en route to the scene of the crime, so Sherlock shuffled to the bathroom to answer nature's call, or whatever it was he liked to do in there.

"Hey John!" Kyrie called from her position, her legs stretched out in front of her, "What's up?"

"Dead hiker," John explained, "What about you?"

"Ugh, don't get me started," she complained. "Apparently my name isn't useful or important enough to be allowed storage room on that hard drive of his."

"Ouch," John said before focussing his attention back on Sherlock who just came shuffling back into the living room with a big drawn out unabashed yawn while scratching his head.

"You realise this is a tiny bit humiliating?" John asked him as Sherlock perched himself in a chair behind the laptop screen.

"It's okay, I'm fine," Sherlock dismissed John's bashfulness, "Now, show me to the stream."

"I didn't really mean for you," John said with a sigh.

"Look, this is a six," Sherlock explained as if he were talking to a five year old. "There's no point in me leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Now, go back, show me the grass."

Kyrie heard the sound of footsteps crunching small rocks and trudging through grass come from the speakers of the laptop.

"When did we agree that?" John wanted to know as he did what Sherlock had instructed him to do.

"We agreed it yesterday," Sherlock said and Kyrie snorted at his comment. "Stop!" he called out, "Closer!" Suddenly the view shifted and Kyrie saw John's face appear on the laptop screen.

"I wasn't even at home yesterday!" John said exasperated, "I was in Dublin."

"It's hardly my fault you weren't listening."

Kyrie grinned at the outrageous comment. That was just Sherlock all over. He would never remember her name and he would gladly rant to an empty living room when John wasn't even there to listen. She then let out a peal of laughter when the doorbell rang and Sherlock yelled at it to shut up.

"Do you just carry on talking when I'm away?" John wanted to know.

"Yes, John!" Kyrie yelled. Sherlock glared at her before turning back his attention to the laptop screen. "I don't know," he said irritably, "How often are you away? Now, show me the car that backfired."

"There," John said and the view shifted again, showing a car somewhere in the distance. "That's the one that made the noise, yes?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," John answered as his face appeared in view again, "If you're thinking gunshot, there wasn't one. He wasn't shot, he was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument, which then magically disappeared, along with the killer."

Ah, so John had already examined the body. Sherlock touched his lips with his fingers pensively, pondering the new bit of information.

"It's got to be an eight, at least," John claimed.

"You've got two more minutes, they want to know more about the driver." Kyrie heard someone say with a gruff voice. She raised her eyebrows a bit at hearing the unfamiliar voice.

"Oh, forget him, he's an idiot," Sherlock said dismissively, waving the ridiculous thought away with his hand. "Why else would he think himself a suspect?"

The face of the unfamiliar third person appeared on the screen, " _I_ think he's a suspect!"

"Then you're an idiot too," Sherlock remarked. "Pass me over!" he hissed. "All right," John said almost pleasantly, "But there's a mute button and I am not afraid to use it!"

"Up a bit!" Sherlock cried out, "I'm not talking from down here!" Kyrie grinned at the outburst. "Okay, just take it. Take it!" John practically shoved the laptop in what's-his-name's face.

Kyrie got up from the couch and leaned in to have a look, her hair spilling over Sherlock's shoulder as she did so. She did not want to miss a single micro-expression that would cross the man's face. She knew what was coming and her lips curved into a smile.

"Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective. Fair play?"

"He's trying to be clever, it's over-confidence," the police officer countered, clearly not wanting to see Sherlock's valid point. Sherlock dropped his head with a sigh and looked up again, aimlessly trying to brush Kyrie's hair away.

"Did you see him?" he asked annoyed. "Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict…"

"How can you tell something like that?" Kyrie whispered under her breath.

"And the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition," Sherlock continued, "Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and limited life expectancy and you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?" Sherlock snorted with laughter before glancing over his shoulder at the client. "Don't worry, this is just stupid," he tried to assure the client. Kyrie bit her lip in an attempt not to laugh. Only Sherlock had the amazing ability to be astoundingly frustrating and adorable at the same time.

"I just can," Sherlock whispered to her.

"What did you say?" the client asked alarmed,."Heart what?"

But that was all the humanity Sherlock could muster for one day and had already turned his attention back to the screen.

"Go to the stream," he ordered. "What's in the stream?" the police officer asked confused. "Go and see," Sherlock huffed, leaning back in the chair. "Ugh, your hair tickles, get it out of my face!" Kyrie merely smiled and pulled her long golden mane to the other side.

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson admonished him when she suddenly breezed inside. "You weren't answering your doorbell!"

"Oops," Kyrie muttered. Mrs Hudson was followed by some imposing looking men Kyrie didn't recognise. She nervously gripped Sherlock's shoulder when one of the men ordered the other to get Sherlock some clothes and pointed him in the right direction. Sherlock silently put his hand over Kyrie's in a reassuring manner. "Who the hell are you?" Sherlock demanded to know.

"Sorry, Mr Holmes," the dark skinned man said as he leaned over and reached out his hand.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John asked right before the laptop lid was closed.

"You're coming with us," the man continued. "You too, Mrs Holmes."

"Like hell we are!" Kyrie shrieked in outrage.

She could feel her heart constricting in her chest because she was absolutely terrified, she was deathly afraid these men were about to take them to meet Gerulf. If Gerulf had found out… Oh God! He would kill Sherlock! Her heart skipped a few beats and Kyrie felt faint, her hand trembling underneath Sherlock's.

He wordlessly slipped his hand upwards and gently furled his fingers around her wrist. He was perfectly calm. Annoyed to bits perhaps, but otherwise calm and absolutely not intimidated.

Sherlock said absolutely nothing and refused to even acknowledge their presence. The mocking look that briefly crossed his face when someone offered him his clothes was priceless. Kyrie would have laughed if she hadn't been so scared.

"Please, Mr Holmes. Where you're going you'll want to be dressed."

Sherlock turned his head and gave the man his deducing once over. He smiled smugly and Kyrie figured he had reached his conclusion. He was still calm and completely at ease, his fingers rested against her skin in complete tranquillity. Okay, so not Gerulf's men then?

"Oh, I know exactly where we're going," he said, smug look still stuck on his face while he still stubbornly refused to get dressed. Sherlock's tranquil composure rubbed off on Kyrie. She didn't say a word. Sherlock might be fine going where they were going, half naked, but Kyrie was not going without her coat.


	7. Regal in the Palace

Chapter 4-2

A while later they sat across from each other. Kyrie still had a hard time wrapping her head around their current situation, or better yet, their current whereabouts. They were sitting in a posh antechamber in the bloody Buckingham Palace! Sitting on posh couches, huge posh chandeliers hanging over their heads from the ceiling. Sherlock's clothes remained untouched on the table between them. He just stared ahead, his sheet still tightly pulled around him. Suddenly he blinked, as if his mind had wandered off for miles and he had suddenly returned.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice oddly soft. Kyrie looked up at him and furrowed her brows.

"For what?" she asked.

"Forgetting your name," he stated simply. Kyrie smiled softly. "It's okay… it's…" she chuckled wryly, "It's not important anyway."

Sherlock scowled at her words, but said nothing. He slightly turned his head and studied her. Kyrie looked down at her hands, allowing him to study her, but not willing to meet his eyes, afraid to see in them what he might deduce about her.

"You were afraid earlier," he said, "I checked your pulse, it was quite erratic. You were terrified. Why?"

"Gerulf," she said quietly when she trusted her voice enough, "For a moment I thought… you know… and if he had…"

"Ah," Sherlock said in understanding.

"I was afraid he'd kill you," she finished.

Sherlock squinted his eyes, furrowed his brows and then squinted his eyes again. Hmm. It was a weird look on his face, a look she didn't recognise and didn't know what it meant.

Nearing footsteps drew her attention. "John!" she called out in surprise when she saw who it was. John said nothing, he just spread his hands as if he wanted to ask: 'What's this?' Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders in a 'Don't ask me' kind of way. John had an awestruck look on his face as he quietly sat down next to Sherlock. "Hey," he finally said, "Fancy seeing you here!"

Kyrie smirked at him. Suddenly his face split in a grin and he turned his face to look at Sherlock. His face then scrunched up in surprise when it seemed to register what Sherlock was wearing. And what he wasn't.

"Are you wearing any pants?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock replied immediately.

"Okay…"

They both turned their heads and it only took one glance for them to start sniggering and giggling before John let a guffaw rip and Sherlock erupted with deep rumbling laughter. Kyrie rolled her eyes.

"Really guys?" she admonished them lightly.

"Oh, come on Kyrie," John said trying to recompose himself. "At Buckingham Palace. Right" He cleared his throat. "I am seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray." That started the sniggering all over again and Kyrie couldn't help but join in the mirth.

It took a good couple of tries of clearing his throat before John's curiosity finally won over. "What are we doing here, Sherlock?" he finally managed to ask, though his voice wasn't quite steady yet. "Seriously, what?"

"I don't know," Sherlock grinned.

"Here to see the Queen?" John wondered. At those words suddenly Mycroft entered the antechamber.

"Oh, apparently, yes," Sherlock answered dryly, causing the boys to erupt in laughter again. It was that genuine bout of laughter that Kyrie had only witnessed once from Sherlock. The one that had died from his throat the moment he saw her. It was nice to hear it again. Kyrie however was too surprised to join the fun herself.

"Mycroft!" she exclaimed in surprise. "You were behind all… this?" she asked incredulously, standing up and gesturing all around her. "Yes, sister dear," Mycroft said through gritted teeth, obviously annoyed by the behaviour of his little brother and his friend. "Just once can you two behave like grown-ups?" Mycroft drawled.

"We solve crimes, I blog about it and he forgets his pants," John said.

"And she makes cookies," Sherlock said nodding at Kyrie.

"Oh, yes. Yes, she does," John agreed.

"Good cookies," Sherlock muttered.

"There. Crimes, blog, no pants, cookies. So, I wouldn't hold much hope," John answered Mycroft's question.

"I was just in the middle of a case, Mycroft," Sherlock said, the annoyed edge back in the tone of his voice. Kyrie watched them curiously, somehow she got a sense that the two of them didn't really get along. She'd not seen them together often or long enough to get an accurate understanding about their relationship.

"What, the hiker and the backfire?" Mycroft scoffed with disdain. "I glanced at the police report, a bit obvious surely?"

"Transparent," Sherlock met his brother's stare without flinching. Kyrie sought John's eyes and saw he was as perplexed as she was. He slightly shrugged his shoulders and nodded at the brothers. "Genius," he mouthed, "When they want to be." Kyrie smirked at him.

"Time to move on then," Mycroft said and he picked up the pile of clothes, offering it to Sherlock. He just smiled slightly and turned his head away.

"We are in Buckingham Palace, at the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on!" Mycroft ordered.

"What for?" he wanted to know.

"Your client."

"And my client is?" Sherlock asked as he raised himself from the couch.

"Illustrious, in the extreme. And remaining, I inform you, entirely anonymous." A pompous voice said and another suit entered the waiting room.

Kyrie had to fight the urge to flatten herself against the back of the couch. She did not like this man. There was something in his countenance that reminded her too much of Gerulf.

" _You are utterly delicious…"_ Kyrie squeezed her eyes shot. Not here, not right now! If she was going to have a panic attack _now_ , she'd die of mortification!

"Mycroft!" the man greeted Mycroft in a mock cheery tone.

"Harry," Mycroft drawled back in greeting and they shook hands. It made Kyrie want to puke.

"May I just apologise for the state of my little brother?" Mycroft said as he went to stand next to Harry.

"A full-time occupation, I imagine," Harry said mockingly.

"Like you have the full-time occupation of being a dick," Kyrie muttered softly, shooting a glare at the odious man. Mycroft coughed and if Harry had heard her at all, he didn't show it. Sherlock's lips curved up in a bemused smile, however briefly, but the twinkle in his eyes told Kyrie that he had most certainly heard her remark.

"And this must be Dr John Watson, formerly the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?" Harry asked, turning his attention to John.

"Hello, yes," John said with a smile, offering his hand. Oh Lord, the suit surely knew how to press John's buttons to get a positive reaction.

"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog," Harry said with an easy smile.

Kyrie rolled her eyes. John was visibly surprised, "Your employer?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes," Harry elaborated, "Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminium crutch."

"Thank you," John said appreciatively and he just couldn't help but clear his throat and send Sherlock a meaningful look. Kyrie pursed her lips into a thin line.

"And this must be the newly Mrs Holmes," Harry said when he slowly turned around to face Kyrie. Harry offered her his hand, but Kyrie folded her arms tightly. "My, my, that is a fierce look you've got going on there, my dear," Harry said with a chuckle. "However did Mr Holmes manage to snare a lovely creature like you?" The backhanded insult was entirely too obvious.

"All he needed was one word," she proffered sweetly. Harry reeled back a bit in surprise.

"Oh, really?" he mused, "And, pray tell, what may that one word have been? Hopefully the rest of us mere mortal men may one day be as lucky as him."

"Hi," Kyrie drawled, doing her best impression of Mycroft, "But to be honest, he might as well have said 'bumfuzzle', the result wouldn't have been any different."

Harry's smile faltered a moment and behind him Kyrie could hear a muffled sniggering. She didn't have to look to know that John was really trying his best to not start laughing his head off. Harry quickly moved away from Kyrie and she noticed Mycroft quickly hid a bemused smile.

"And Mr Holmes the younger. You look taller in your photographs."

Kyrie noticed 'Harry' didn't offer his hand for a hand shake. Neither did Sherlock. "I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend," Sherlock replied dryly. "Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients," he then averred and turned around to step in front of his brother. "I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases, both ends is too much work. Good morning." And with those words he whipped around and started to walk away. Unfortunately, Mycroft managed to put his foot down on the tip of the sheet that trailed behind him. Sherlock kept walking and the sheet suddenly fell away from his body.

It was only because of his lightning quick reflexes that he was able to prevent himself from standing buck naked inside Buckingham Palace.

Kyrie felt her cheeks heat in embarrassment. A quick glance at her almost naked husband who wasn't actually her husband was really not what she needed. An image she feared that would forever burn in her memory.

"This is a matter of national importance. Grow up!"

"Get off my sheet!" Sherlock hissed.

"Or what?"

"Or, I'll just walk away," he threatened.

"I'll let you," Mycroft countered. Kyrie groaned in dismay. Thankfully, John decided to intervene.

"Boys," he said, as if he were talking to five-year-olds. "Not here, not in front of her."

"Who. Is. My. Client," Sherlock demanded to know and Kyrie sensed he was trying really hard not to cause any more of a scene.

"Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction," Mycroft challenged him, "You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now, for God's sake!" Mycroft exploded and he immediately looked discomfited by his outburst, "Put your clothes on!" he said urgently, but a bit quieter.

Sherlock sighed deeply and Kyrie could just imagine him count to ten. In the end, he acquiesced and very soon they were all sitting down for a civilised cup of tea. Kyrie somewhat squashed between the boys as she refused to go anywhere near Harry.

Mycroft poured the tea in fine china cups, "I'll be mother," he said with a pleasant smile now his little brother was behaving a bit better and was fully dressed.

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell," Sherlock remarked dryly. Kyrie gently elbowed him in the ribs. Mycroft silently glowered at Sherlock as he put down the tea pot.

"My employer has a problem," Harry began.

"A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, _dear brother_ ," Mycroft took over, though Kyrie wanted to throttle him for saying 'dear brother' in such a scathing way. "Your name has arisen."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, "We have a police force of sorts, even a marginally secret service. Why come to me?"

"People do come to you for help don't they, Mr Holmes?" Harry asked.

"Not to date anyone with a navy," Sherlock countered.

"This is a matter of the highest security and therefore of trust," Mycroft explained.

"You don't trust your own secret service?" Kyrie asked.

"Naturally not, sister dear. They all spy on people for money."

"I do think we have a timetable," Harry interrupted. "Yes, of course" Mycroft agreed and he opened up his leather suit case. "What do you know about this woman?" he asked, handing Sherlock a photograph. Sherlock gave it a superficial glance. "Nothing whatsoever."

"Then you should be paying more attention," Mycroft admonished him. "She's been at the centre of two political scandals in the last year and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist, by having an affair with both participants separately.

Kyrie arched a brow at the description and tried to sneak a glance at the picture. Whoever that woman was, Kyrie knew that she at least partly used her looks to get what she wanted. She was curious to find out what such a woman looked like.

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia," Sherlock said, "Who is she?"

"Irene Adler, professionally known as 'The Woman'."

"Professionally?" John asked quizzical.

"There are many names for what she does," Mycroft told, "She prefers _dominatrix_."

Kyrie nearly choked on her sip of tea. Mycroft wanted Sherlock to go after a woman like that?

"Dominatrix," Sherlock repeated pensively.

"Don't be alarmed," Mycroft teased, "It's to do with sex."

"Sex doesn't alarm me," Sherlock said tersely.

Mycroft scoffed in disdain, "How would you know?"

Sherlock's eyes widened a bit at the backhanded insult. Kyrie clenched her jaw. Mycroft had not only found a way to insult his little brother, but at the same time he had thoroughly embarrassed her. From the way he suddenly averted her eyes, he knew.

"She provides, shall we say, recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it," Mycroft told them, as if he hadn't just revealed the naked truth about the nature of Kyrie's sudden marriage to Sherlock in front of a complete stranger she didn't trust. He just took out a few more photographs he then handed over to Sherlock. They were a lot racier than the previous one.

"These are all from her website."

Sherlock didn't seem affected at all by the partial nudity and the provoking poses. "And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs?" he concluded.

"You're very quick, Mr Holmes," Harry complimented, though it sounded more like an insult.

"Hardly a difficult deduction," Sherlock remarked nonchalantly, "Photographs of whom?"

Mycroft and Harry briefly shared a meaningful look, before Harry finally answered. "A person of significance to my employer. We'd prefer not to say any more at this time."

Sherlock threw the pictures back on the table. "You can't tell us anything?" John asked.

Mycroft pondered the question for a moment. "I can tell you it's a young person," Mycroft finally relented. "A young female person."

Sherlock briefly smirked in triumph, and glanced at Harry in a way that said he had figured it out. Harry gulped noticeably and Mycroft sighed, clearly aware his vague clue had been all Sherlock needed.

"How many photographs?" Sherlock demanded.

"A considerable number, apparently," Mycroft told with a tight smile.

"Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?"

"Yes, they do."

"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios?"

"An imaginative range, we are assured."

"John, you might want to put that cup back in your saucer now," Sherlock advised his friend.

"Can you help us, Mr Holmes?" Harry asked curiously.

"How?" Sherlock enquired.

"Will you take the case?"

"What case? Pay her, now and in full," Sherlock advised, "As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, know when you are beaten." With those words Sherlock turned around to pick up his coat.

"She doesn't want anything," Mycroft said. "She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed. She indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favour."

His words finally seemed to spark an interest in Sherlock. "Oh, a power play!" he said with obvious glee and anticipation. "A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now, that _is_ a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?" He started to sound more and more excited about the prospect of the case.

"Sherlock," John mildly warned him, but Sherlock was already in full thinking mode, briefly placing his fingers together before he required after her whereabouts.

"Uh, in London, currently," Mycroft said, pulling out his little notebook, "She's staying-"

"Text me the details," Sherlock cut him off. "I'll be in touch by the end of the day." He swung his coat over his left arm and buttoned up his jacket.

"Do you really think you'll have news by then?" Harry asked incredulously.

Sherlock turned around. "No, I think I'll have the photographs," he claimed cockily.

"One can only hope you're as good as you seem to think," Harry said sounding doubtful of Sherlock's capabilities. Never a good thing to say to Sherlock. Kyrie saw Sherlock giving Harry his deducing once over, his eyes taking on a greener shade than usual. Instead of showing off though, he simply asked for equipment.

"Anything you require, I'll have it sent over," Mycroft assured.

"Can I have a box of matches?" Sherlock asked out of the blue.

"I'm sorry?" Harry queried.

"Or your cigarette lighter, either will do."

"I don't smoke," Harry said while shaking his head.

"No, I know _you_ don't, but your employer does," Sherlock explained as he stretched out his hand.

"We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr Holmes," Harry admitted begrudgingly while handing Sherlock an expensive looking lighter.

"I'm not the Commonwealth," Sherlock remarked, taking the lighter and turning around on his heels.

"And that's as modest as he gets," John said, "Pleasure to meet you." John looked around at Kyrie who just raised her hand in greeting, the smile she wanted to give him barely touching her lips.

"Laters!" Sherlock called over his shoulder, already distancing himself from the room and conversation, John following suite.

Kyrie remained seated on the sofa and looked up at Mycroft and Harry, quizzically arching her brow at her brother in law.

"Harry, if you don't mind, I'd like to have a word with my dear sister-in-law," Mycroft said with a smile.

Harry nodded at him and let his glance linger on her with a smirk, before he left them alone. Mycroft settled himself on the other sofa so he could face her. He looked her up and down a bit, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"You are looking well," he drawled. "So, I see my dear little brother managed to leave an impression on you as you now seem to have modelled yourself after him." Mycroft subtly gestured at her coat.

"He was quite adamant. He insisted I needed a good coat," Kyrie said, still angry at him.

"Hmm, interesting choice of colour, I thought my brother would get you something a bit more sedated."

"I picked it. Actually, I was partial to it and then Sherlock wouldn't let me pick a different coat even though this one was way too..."

"Ah," Mycroft said with a smile, "Yes, the price of a good quality coat. Not what you are used to, I'm sure. And the scarf?"

"His idea," Kyrie admitted.

"Of course. So, it seems an attachment of sorts has formed after all. How very surprising," Mycroft said with a small smile.

Kyrie arched her brow at him. "Do you really believe your so brother lacks the kind of disposition that could make people care for him?"

"Yes, I do," Mycroft said. "Yet, he is surrounded by people who somehow see past his defects and unpleasantries. It pleases me greatly. But, I wasn't referring to that."

"I don't follow," Kyrie said, furrowing her brows in wonderment.

"No, I don't suppose you would. What surprises me, dear sister," Myrcroft said as he leaned forward, gauging her response, "Is the attachment _he_ seems to have formed... to _you_."

"Me?" Kyrie chuckled wryly. "You are losing your touch then, My. We get along, he tolerates me and most of the time he treats me, well... not unfriendly. But don't mistake it for attachment. If there had been, you'd think he'd at least be able to remember my name. Irene Adler, on the other hand, now that name he had no problems with remembering at all." Kyrie bit her lip and looked away. She didn't want My to notice that it had stung.

"And yet," Mycroft said, "I was the first person he called that evening you had your emotional little break down. He didn't text, he _called_. Sherlock avoids any and all situations in which he might have to instigate any form of contact with me. For some reason, he found it absolutely necessary to _call_ me when you disappeared from the flat."

Kyrie didn't respond.

"But what is the most telling, is the way he tried to reassure you when my men came over to pick you up. Sorry 'bout that by the way."

"He just checked my pulse," she bit out.

"Why would he need to do that?" Mycroft countered. "He already knew you were afraid. No, he offered you physical support. I wouldn't underestimate the gravity of that one seemingly small gesture."

Kyrie sat there, her mind reeling about the fact that her own brother-in-law, who knew Sherlock better than most, had pretty much confirmed the fact that in some way, Sherlock Holmes cared about her.

"Is that why you felt it was safe to reveal the nature of our marriage with a jibe?"

Mycroft looked away in shame. "That was uncalled for. As you may have guessed, when we are together, we positively bring out the worst in each other. But Harry can be trusted. He's also on the team working diligently to bring about the fall of Gerulf Schricken."

"And Irene Adler?" Kyrie asked softly. "Do you believe that Sherlock's so called attachment to me is strong enough to withstand a woman like her?"

"Sherlock is in love with the puzzle, with The Game and that is all she will pose for him. If Sherlock does turn out to possess a heart, I suspect he'd rather use it to keep you from harm, instead of giving it to a dominatrix."

"Based on what?"

"He wasn't just checking your pulse, Kyrie, no matter what he said."

Kyrie tried to swallow away a lump that seemed to have formed in her throat.

"I don't know… But, know one thing, Mycroft..." Mycroft looked up in surprise when she used his entire name. "If Sherlock does have a heart capable of love and decides to gift it to someone, I will be the first in line to file for divorce. I will not stand in the way between him and whatever form of happiness he can find."


	8. Like Kissing a Fish

Chapter Five.

Sometime later, after Kyrie had safely been brought back to Baker Street, she was startled from the book she'd been reading when she heard John call out for her. "Kyrie!" It was the commanding tone of his voice with a bit of a clipped edge that propelled her into action. The stumbling noises she heard come up from the stairs filled her with dread. Something had happened!

She flung open the door and gasped in shock when she saw John and a man she recognised as Lestrade from the papers, drag a barely conscious Sherlock upstairs. Kyrie raced ahead and pulled the covers on Sherlock's bed to the side, made sure there was a clear way for the men to carry Sherlock to his bedroom.

"Good luck with him, keep me posted, all right?" the man told John after a curious glance in Kyrie's direction.

"John, what the hell happened to Sherlock?" Kyrie asked, her voice shaking a bit and higher pitched than usual.

"We went to see this... the woman, Irene Adler, there... was a bit of a situation. Err... can you help me with him first? I'll explain everything in a bit."

"Yes, of course. What can I do?"

"Make him comfortable, take his jacket off... and we have to keep an eye on him. Irene gave him some kind of drug. He is completely out of it."

John disappeared into the bathroom while Kyrie relieved an unconscious Sherlock of his jacket. He moaned something unintelligent when she tenderly smoothed a few dark curls away from his forehead. John came back with a damp cloth and handed it to her. Silently she pressed it to his head and his cheeks when she noticed the bruise forming right above his left cheekbone.

John gently rolled him on his side and covered him up with his sheets. "We have to make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit," John said. "If he gets sick and he vomits, we have to help him with that. His body won't be able to prevent vomit from entering his lungs.

Kyrie just nodded silently, while pressing the cloth to Sherlock's head. "Will he be okay?" she whispered, her voice broken with worry.

John gently wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "Of course he will be okay, he's Sherlock! He's too stubborn to die!"

Kyrie laughed a bit but then gasped when Sherlock's body started to spasm. An awful gurgling noise struggled from his throat as his body tried to expel the drugs and toxins by excretion. His body started to shiver and tremble. John helped to clear the vomit away while Kyrie gently cleaned his mouth, face and neck. When they had cleaned him up, John told her the best they could do was to let him sleep it off. Kyrie gently pressed her lips to his cheek in a light kiss, careful of the bruised spot, before she got up and followed John to the kitchen. She kept herself busy preparing a cup of tea for them, while John told her everything that had happened.

"So, she actually managed to get under his skin? I'm impressed," Kyrie muttered as she sipped her tea.

"Don't be," John muttered darkly, "She's a manipulative creature and she's clever, I'll give her that. Sherlock is just intrigued with her because she's... on his level in some way."

"They are playing 'The Game' together, aren't they?" she asked.

"Yeah, I think so," John admitted, "She's... I've never seen him worked up like that before. It's like she pressed a few buttons and got him to dance. And then he just turned the tables on her and then..." John threw up his hands emulating an explosion.

"Do you think... is Sherlock attracted to her?" Kyrie asked softly.

John covered his mouth with his hand in contemplation. "I think... I'm not sure actually. He... looked affected by her. I'm so sorry, Kyrie," he said, "This must be so awkward for you."

"No, not really," Kyrie lied, "Err... I just... well, we all know what this marriage is and isn't and it will end at some point. I'm just trying to determine if we are already nearing that point."

"But, Gerulf?"

"Gerulf be damned," Kyrie said angrily, "I won't stand in his way, John. I told Mycroft the same thing. I am grateful for the protection Sherlock offers me for as long as we are married. But no one should miss out on that one chance of love when it comes along, however unlikely. If it does come along for Sherlock, even though everyone seems to think that will never happen, I will step aside."

"You are an amazing woman, Kyrie," John said quietly, "Never for one minute, not even a second, believe that this Adler woman is better than you. She may have found a way to press his buttons, but she doesn't have your heart."

Kyrie was about to answer when they suddenly heard a muffled sound coming from the bedroom and after that Sherlock's voice calling. "John!" They both sprang to their feet and rushed to the bedroom. There was a loud thud right before John opened the door and they found Sherlock sprawled on the floor.

"You okay?" John asked slightly bemused seeing the look of utter confusion on Sherlock's face.

"How did I get here," Sherlock demanded as he struggled to get up from the floor. Kyrie didn't rush to his side. He was clearly snapping out of it in full swing in one of those moods when it was better to just get out of his hair.

"Well," John started, "I don't suppose you remember much, you weren't making a lot of sense. Oh, I should warn you. I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone."

Sherlock blinked his eyes a couple of times, trying to focus and breathing heavily. "Where is she?" he asked.

"Where's who?" John asked in surprise.

Sherlock started to search his room, turning around on very unsteady feet.

"The woman, that woman," he said pointing in a few different directions.

"Who?"

"The woman!" Sherlock exclaimed agitated, "The woman woman!"

"Oh! Irene Adler?" It finally dawned on John what the self-proclaimed consulting detective was rambling about. "She got away, no one saw her."

Sherlock stumbled to his window to have a look outside.

"She wasn't here, Sherlock," John said while Sherlock took another tumble to the floor.

"What are you...? What?" John and Kyrie watched as Sherlock crawled around, determined to get up and go after that woman. John wasn't having any of it though. "No, no, no. No. Back to bed," he said as he none too gently grabbed Sherlock underneath his arms and unceremoniously dumped him back in bed. John sighed at the entire situation. "You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep," John said and he turned around to the kitchen.

"Of course I'll be fine," Sherlock muttered. Hell, even in a drugs stupor he still managed to sound disdainful. "I am fine. I'm absolutely fine," he muttered some more while Kyrie gently pulled the sheets up to cover his shoulders.

"Of course you are," Kyrie whispered quietly, "I'll be next door if you need me, okay?"

Sherlock just sighed in tired annoyance, "Why would I need you?" he muttered as he rolled over to go to sleep. She smiled sadly. "No reason at all."

The next morning Kyrie felt out of sorts, while Sherlock seemed to be back to his insulting old self again. Sherlock was reading a newspaper at the table in the far end of the room. John sat on the side, eating breakfast that Mrs Hudson had prepared this time, Mrs Hudson was prattling along in the kitchen and Kyrie was listlessly pushing the food around her plate while listening to the two Holmes brothers argue with each other.

"The photographs are perfectly safe," Sherlock said offhandedly, not taking his eyes from the newspaper.

"In the hands of a fugitive sex worker?" Mycroft scoffed.

"She's not interested in blackmail. She wants... protection, for some reason. And going about it cleverer than some," he said defensively. Kyrie stilled her fork for a brief moment, the only outward sign that his comment had hit home.

"I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?" Sherlock arched his brow at Mycroft.

"How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our hands are tied!" Mycroft raised his voice a bit.

"She'd applaud your choice of words," Sherlock said with a slight smirk, "You see how this works, that camera-phone is her get-out-of-jail-free card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft," he said scathingly.

"Though not the way she treats royalty," John advised.

Suddenly the sound of a female erotic moan rang through the room, everyone looked up in surprise.

"What was that," John asked and looked around.

Sherlock looked slightly embarrassed but recomposed himself quickly. "Text," he simply said and he folded the newspaper he'd been reading.

"But what was that noise?" John asked as Sherlock got up, his red brown dressing gown billowing behind him, and picked up his phone.

"Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft, before you sent John and I in there?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject while reading the text he had received. "CIA trained killers," he said walking back to his seat, "I think, excellent guess."

"Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft," John said.

"It's a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that," Mrs Hudson bristled as she brought over a plate with some left over home baked cookies Kyrie had made. She put the plate in front of Sherlock while checking his mug to see if he needed more tea.

"Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes!" she admonished him

"Oh, shut up, Mrs Hudson!" Mycroft burst out.

"Hey!" Kyrie and John exclaimed in indignation while Sherlock bellowed, "Mycroft!" It was the first time Kyrie had ever witnessed an outburst like that. By either of the Holmes brothers. Mycroft, seeing he was outnumbered in this, was quick to apologise. "Apologies," he said regally.

"Thank you," Mrs Hudson accepted is apology with as much grace as she could muster, before heading back to the kitchen.

"Though do, in fact, shut up," Sherlock muttered.

Then another erotic moan could be heard. How wonderful, another text. Kyrie didn't need Sherlock's brilliant sleuthing abilities to figure out who was sending these texts.

"Oh, it's a bit rude, that noise. Isn't it?" Mrs Hudson peaked her head around the corner, worrying her lip.

"There's nothing you can do and nothing she will do as far as I can see," Sherlock said as he picked up the newspaper again.

"I can put maximum surveillance on her," Mycroft suggested.

"Why bother?" Sherlock asked, "You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her username is TheWhipHand."

"Yes, most amusing," Mycroft scoffed as his phone went off with the ring tone of an old fashioned phone. "Excuse me," he said as he accepted the call and disappeared into the kitchen.

To Kyrie's dismay, John took the opportunity to needle Sherlock about his new text alert.

"Why does your phone make that noise?" he asked. Sherlock pretended he had no clue what John was referring to. "What noise?"

"That noise," John said as he nodded at the phone, "The one it just made."

Kyrie rolled her eyes and used her vocal abilities to emulate the sound of an erotic moan. A faint blush lightly stained Sherlock's cheeks, but otherwise he remained impassive. "It's a text alert, it means I've got a text."

"Hmm," John said. "Your texts don't usually make that noise."

"Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently as a joke, personalised their text alert noise."

"Hm, so every time they text you..."

Another erotic moan alerted them that Sherlock had just received a new text.

"It would seem so," Sherlock said in a resigned manner.

"Could you turn that phone down a bit?" Mrs Hudon requested. Poor thing looked completely flustered by all the erotic moaning. Kyrie, despite having a bad mood, couldn't keep a grin from tugging at her lips.

"At my time of life it's..." John cleared his throat and Sherlock ducked his head behind the newspaper. Kyrie smiled when Mrs Hudson decided to leave it alone and wandered back to the kitchen.

"See, I'm wondering who could have got hold of your phone, because it would have been in your coat, wouldn't it?"

"Don't look at me," Kyrie said dryly, "I would never go for a half-arsed sound like that. I'm more of a..." and again she used her vocal abilities to rip a raw sexual drawn out orgasmic moan from her throat, "... type of gal," she finished. John let out a guffaw and Sherlock raised his newspaper so his face was completely hidden.

"I'll leave you to your deductions," Sherlock replied with a sigh.

"I'm not stupid you know," John said, indicating he knew exactly who the texts were from. "Where do you get that idea?" Sherlock remarked in a bored tone.

"Everyone gets that idea when they spend enough time around you," Kyrie said with a laugh. At that moment Mycroft appeared from the kitchen and they could hear the last snippet of his conversation.

"Bond air is go, that's decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later," Mycroft ended the call and put it back in his pocket.

"What else does she have?" Sherlock suddenly asked but Mycroft kept silent. "Irene Adler!" Sherlock cried out and Kyrie rolled her eyes in disgust. Sherlock Holmes, a hot blooded male after all. Leave it to him to be perfectly able to recall the name of a dominatrix. While with her he was still stuck on Kylie, Kira, Carla or some other name that kind of resembled 'Kyrie'.

"The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs," Sherlock squinted his eyes at his brother. "There's more!" he suddenly realised and he stood up and walked over to his brother, "Much more." Another step and Sherlock came face to face with Mycroft. "Something big is coming, isn't it?" he demanded while Mycroft stood there scowling at him.

"Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours," Mycroft said, his voice slightly threatening, "From now on, you will stay out of this."

"Oh, will I?" Sherlock said, taking up the gauntlet.

"Yes, Sherlock," Mycroft said with a pleasant smile before it dropped from his face completely, "You will."

For a brief moment brother and brother stared at each other, until Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and picked up his violin. Kyrie turned at him in interest. After all this talk about Sherlock playing the violin, she had never heard him play anything all these weeks she'd been living here!

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend," Mycroft said. Sherlock whipped around with his violin, "Do give her my love," he said and he started playing 'Save the Queen'. Mycroft rolled his eyes and left.

The first thing Kyrie noticed was that the moment Sherlock drew his bow across the strings, he immediately found the right tone, no scratching sound or adjustment of fingers to find the right note was needed. Second thing she noticed was the lovely, deep and warm sound he managed to elicit from the violin. Much like the quality his own voice could possess, if he wanted to.

After that morning, it took some time for Kyrie to find herself again. She couldn't deny that, that one day Irene Adler had come crashing into her little life, it had rocked the foundation of her self-confidence, which hadn't been too firm to begin with. After weeks of hearing nothing more about her, accept the occasional erotic moaning when Sherlock received a new text, life again seemed to have gone back to normal. Normal Baker Street style that was. Sherlock and John went back to receiving clients and John continued to blog about their cases, taking over patients for other doctors when the need arose.

And Kyrie, after having come to an understanding with Mycroft, kept a vigilant eye on both the men, cared for them, looked after them and gradually became a safe haven for the men to come home to.

In return, Kyrie could always rely on John to lift her spirits when she felt down and when she needed him the most, Sherlock was always her steady rock of reason. Until one day Kyrie and Sherlock received a most unexpected and unwanted guest.

The air throughout the flat was full of spices, with the delicious smells of ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg and molasses. Kyrie was baking a batch of ginger nuts and Sherlock was impatiently waiting for them to be done. Sherlock had been in one of his moods the entire day, causing John to flee and have lunch with Stamford, one of his old pre-war buddies.

Actually, he was the very one who had introduced Sherlock to John. Stamford... Kyrie had never met the man, but from what John had told about him, she thought she would like him. He seemed the easy going type.

It still amazed her that after several months, she still only knew Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and Sherlock's parents. And a handful of dates John decided to bring home. As it turned out, finding a girl who could stomach being around Sherlock for more than a week, was proving to be quite a challenge.

Sherlock could, for the life of him, not remember their names... wasn't interested in knowing their names, found them all around boring and didn't always use his inner voice when contemplating such thoughts. John's dates usually walked out in a huff, often pitying her or admiring her, asking how the hell she could tolerate to be married to such an insufferable git. Kyrie would fondly smile at him and thought she could tolerate him quite easily.

Other than John's dates, Kyrie heard some smack talk about a couple of agents named Donovan and Anderson. She had met Lestrade only once and apparently Sherlock and John often got aided by a young woman who worked at the morgue, Molly Hooper, another person she'd never met. She understood... Both Sherlock and John were careful who they introduced her to, not wanting too many people to know about her. Though Kyrie appreciated the care and protection the two men offered her, sometimes she felt a bit cooped up in apartment 221B, especially when the boys were dashing all over London, solving cases and catching criminals.

"Are they done yet?" Sherlock asked again. Kyrie sighed in annoyance. "No, Sherlock, I just put them in the oven."

"That's what you told me five minutes ago!"

"Yes, because you asked me five minutes ago!" Only then Kyrie noticed the teasing glint in his eyes and she grunted in exasperation. "You are an evil git!" she cried out, "No wonder John's dates can't stand being around you!" She turned around with a huff and started to clean up the mess she'd made on the kitchen counter.

"You seem to have no problems with that, being around me I mean," Sherlock's voice suddenly close behind her. Kyrie jumped a bit before she turned around to face him. He was leaning against the kitchen table, looking at her with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

"No," she said with a soft smile. "No problems at all, though at times you can be an evil git." She walked over to him and gently placed a kiss against his cheek. "Now, behave. You can have cookies in about thirty minutes."

He grinned at her. He and John had just solved an arduous case that had taken quite a toll on him. He hadn't touched food in days, hadn't slept well a good few nights, poor thing looked quite haggard and pretty much dead on his feet. She'd see to it he would at least get a few cookies into his system before she'd force him to go to sleep.

Then she would have her hands free to get the groceries and make sure he'd eat well that evening. She was thinking about a home made lasagne with a green salad on the side. Fresh ingredients only. Maybe a bit of garlic bread too.

Suddenly their attention was drawn to the sound of footsteps purposely climbing the steps to their apartment. Curiously Kyrie went to the living room to see who it was. It was an unusual time for a client to be searching them out.

The door opened and Kyrie gasped in horror when she recognised the man standing in the doorway. She wobbled on her feet as her legs felt like they had turned into water. He was tall and skinny, but Kyrie knew the strength that was in those wiry arms and legs.

His black hair was combed back with a lot of hair product, his face still long and gaunt. The same greedy eyes glinting green with desire. His tongue flicked out his mouth, licking the wide thin lips when he took in her appearance.

"You," she cried out. "You leave me alone!" Kyrie stumbled backwards until she bumped against the arm rest of John's chair. "I'm – I'm not alone, my... my..." Kyrie found herself suddenly lacking the air to say the words 'my husband', she knew there was no way she could say it without the words ringing false in even her own ears. Bile rose in her throat and terror clutched at her insides when Gerulf stepped further into the living room.

If her memories and nightmares about him weren't awful enough, the mere sight of him was making her feel violently ill and horribly unable to control her emotions.

"Kira, is it a client? I hope it's not a boring one," Sherlock called right before he suddenly appeared from the kitchen. She tried to suppress the bubble of hysterical laughter that threatened to erupt, of course Sherlock would fail to remember her name in front of Gerulf Schricken! Her tiny strangled moan of fear caught his attention and Kyrie knew he would need but one glance at her current state and the man standing in their home to instantly make the right deduction.

He was beside her in a heartbeat, his arm gently encircling her waist, pulling her tightly against him. For all intents and purposes, Sherlock masterfully played the worried husband while she was reverted to nothing more but a quivering mess.

"Ah, the prodigal husband," Gerulf said with a lisping voice. "I was beginning to wonder if you actually… existed. And here you are."

"Yes, here I am," Sherlock replied dryly.

"You can imagine I was not very happy, learning about you."

Sherlock seemed unmoved when Gerulf's gleaming eyes settled on him. Instead, he took a few steps to stand in front of him, towering over him, looking down on him as if he were a mere pest. "You can imagine I was not very happy, learning you had not only threatened my parents but also you had assaulted _my wife_!" he bellowed. Kyrie was surprised at the anger he managed to convey in his outburst.

"And that's the thing, dear boy," Gerulf said condescending, lightly stepping away from Sherlock, making Sherlock turn around to keep his eyes on him. "Isn't it amazing, that suddenly the object of my affections, turns out to be married? Right after I revealed my desire to wed her, when before that… no ring, no mention of a husband. Over time, I found it so amazing, that I also found it unbelievable!" Gerulf suddenly spat.

The moment he said the word 'unbelievable', Kyrie noticed a tiny red dot dancing over Sherlock's heart. Her anguish erupted in nothing but a barely audible sigh.

Every limb in her body had turned to jelly but she struggled against the paralysing fear. Only one thing mattered in that single moment. She stumbled trying to reach Sherlock, Sherlock shot forward to steady her and without thinking she raised herself on the tips of her toes and threw her arm around his neck, positioning her heart right in front of his.

Gerulf made a weird spluttering noise and when she looked, she noticed his face had turned scarlet red in anger and a vein in his head was throbbing wildly.

"Oh, really?" Sherlock drawled. "How is this for 'unbelievable'?"

His lean fingers gently forced Kyrie to look up in his cerulean eyes, the shock of gold around his pupils more vibrant than ever before. Something briefly flashed in his eyes but Kyrie didn't get the time to contemplate its meaning.

Suddenly his lips softly covered hers and the moment they did, she was lost. His lips moved over hers, gently shaping and fitting her lips to his own and music exploded throughout every pore of her body, arias, duets, low notes, impossible high notes, and choruses reaching entirely new notes.

It was soft and sweet, but at the same foreign and exhilarating. His mouth played with hers, touching it, caressing it, tasting it. Somewhere in the deep recesses where her brain was still able to function, she knew he was conducting an experiment on her, but at that particular moment, she just didn't care.

Sherlock tenderly turned her head to more of a slant. His parted lips pressed against hers, sliding languidly back and forth, encouraging hers to part. The moment they did, his tongue slid between them, plunging into the soft recesses of her mouth. The cold-hot touch of the tip of his tongue on hers sent little shivers down her spine.

Her body seemed to go limp, his arms around her the only reason she was still standing while he languidly explored the inside of her mouth. A last lingering kiss on her lips, as softly and sweetly as a spring rain, then they broke apart.

For a moment they just blinked at each other and it took an ever longer moment for them to realise that Gerulf had left. Sherlock quickly released her and took a big step back. Kyrie slumped down on the couch, completely and utterly in shock, the emotions that had been coiled in a knot now quickly unravelling inside her stomach.

"I think I just solved three cases!" Sherlock said, his voice sounding a bit off.

"What?" Kyrie asked, her mind reeling and unable to form coherent thought.

"Nothing, I need to text Lestrade and John… I'm texting John, he can deal better with…" his hand gestured at her emotional state and he abruptly turned around, just to walk into the wall causing him to stumble back a bit before he found his footing and disappeared through the door.

That evening, Kyrie had not made the lasagne, instead John had picked up Chinese. They were sitting at the small table in the living room as the kitchen table was inaccessible for the time being. Sherlock dropped the bits he didn't like in Kyrie's container while stealing the bits he did like. On her turn, Kyrie stole a few cashews from his container, while the three of them rehashed what had happened that afternoon. John was sending them a few weird looks but other than that he refrained from commenting. Sherlock was the one who told about the moment that had culminated in their kiss, making it sound as clinical as brain surgery.

Kyrie could just feel John's gaze on her and try as she might, she couldn't ignore it. Sherlock of course seemed to feel as much at ease as always as if all was well and nothing was out of the ordinary.

"John," Kyrie said with a slightly threatening tone. "It was just a kiss, I don't suddenly have three heads!"

John seemed unfazed by her outburst, he just smirked. "Yeah, but come one… It's Sherlock!"

"So?" Sherlock demanded to know.

"Well, was it any good? The kiss?" John was curious. Kyrie sighed and could feel a blush of embarrassment creep up.

"I've been wondering about that myself, actually," Sherlock said as if they were talking about an experiment. Well, in his case he probably was!

"Nope," Kyrie said, "not going there. Forget it!"

"Why?" Sherlock asked in surprise. "I for one would like to know how I held up. So, was I good?"

Oh, of course he would ask if _he'd_ been good, not the kiss. Kyrie huffed in indignation.

"Come on," John teased, "Why won't you tell?"

"Because if I say it was great, he..." Kyrie jabbed her finger in Sherlock's direction. "Will say something nasty, like how it felt like making out with a fish!"

"Oh, so I was great!" Sherlock muttered smugly, before his smug look turned to a scowl. "Wait, why would I say something like that? I've never even made out with a fish! Why would I say it felt like making out with a fish?"

Kyrie groaned in dismay while John dissolved in a fit of laugher.


	9. Deck the Halls with Songs and Laughter

**A/N So, we learn that at least Kyrie has fallen smack-dab in love with our consulting detective. Unfortunately, Sherlock is a bit more slow...** **but he was close though... so close! And then... the text!**

The dynamics between Sherlock and Kyrie seemed to change after that. As if they were more aware of each other, more in tune. Though neither of them seemed aware of the development, John noticed that they started gravitating towards each other when they were in the flat. As if a string tied the two together. One would move, the other would move as well.

Sherlock would become antsy and chagrined when Kyrie was out, more affected by the boredom between cases. The moment she came back, his tension would subside somewhat and he even seemed to be better able to focus and make deductions quicker. Kyrie in return seemed to become very finely tuned to his every eccentric mood swings, taking all his absurdities in great stride.

She knew when to get out of his hair and leave him alone, she knew when it was absolutely useless to start a discussion about the messes he tended to make and she knew when to wait for them with a hot brew and a fresh batch of home baked cookies. John had never witnessed two people so in sync with each other while at the same time so out of tune. But he kept silent about it, figuring it was better for the two people involved to work things out by themselves.

Time passed quickly in 221B Baker Street. Weeks went by, months even and suddenly, Christmas was at their doorsteps. John had invited people over for a Christmas party and a few days before Christmas Sherlock nearly threw a fit when his parents had declared they were coming over.

He angrily spluttered into his phone, actually forbidding them to come when Kyrie took the phone from his hands and took over the conversation. In the end, she sweetly managed to convince them not to come. Sherlock needed to act like a loving husband who doted on his wife, which would be that much harder for him to do with his parents being around who knew the truth. It was safer for all of them if they wouldn't come. They saw the logic in that but weren't happy about it. Kyrie handed Sherlock back his phone.

"They aren't coming?" he asked her incredulously. "How?"

Kyrie just shrugged her shoulders and busied herself with other stuff.

"They aren't coming!" he said one last time, still not believing his good fortune.

"Not this year, at least. They have every intention of showing up next year though. They think that should give you ample time to be able to suitably fill your _role_ ," Kyrie remarked.

"We might not even be married next year," Sherlock muttered. Kyrie rolled her eyes, "One can only hope, Sherlock. Make sure you don't forget to buy presents. You know the deal with Mrs Hudson. Be nice this one night of the year!"

John asked if it was okay if he brought over a date. Recently he had been seeing a school teacher, Jeanette, and he thought it was time to introduce her. Kyrie said that of course he could bring his date while Sherlock complained too many people were already coming.

Presents… that proved to be quite difficult. It was easy enough to find Mrs Hudson a beautiful shawl and a nice good quality sweater for John. She sent her parents-in-law a small scrapbook with pictures of her and her Baker Street boys and even sent a gift to Mycroft, an excessively expensive new tie that didn't clash with his clothes as his other ties tended to do.

But what the hell could she buy Sherlock? That man was an enigma, a walking paradox. Loved the finer qualities of life but thought everything else to be frivolous and a waste of time. So what did you get a man who did not want for anything?

In the end she decided on a beautiful leather case in which she had his initials gilded in elegant letters. Inside the case she put a stack of high quality blank music staff paper.

It was a bit lame perhaps, but it was the only thing she could think off. Well, at least he would have enough music paper to be able to compose his own stuff as he often claimed he liked to do. This should tie him over for a while.

Okay, that was presents covered, Christmas dinner covered, drinks covered, finger food covered, cookies covered, now she just needed to pick up the stuff to make the best hot chocolate milk and of course her dress. This being her first Christmas as Mrs Holmes, she had no idea what to expect. But, whether casual or formal, she was wearing _that_ dress. A dress she had spotted in some dressing window and had simply fallen smack dab in love with it.

The evening set in on Christmas Eve, Kyrie and Mrs Hudson had decorated the apartment, with a bit of help from John.

Mrs Hudson took care of dinner, Kyrie made hot chocolate milk and there were cookies galore. She felt nervous knowing that soon people whom she didn't know would be joining them and she hoped she would be able to pull this thing off as a gracious host. Or co-host.

"Relax," Sherlock had told her a few times, visibly annoyed she was making such a fuss over something is tedious as a Christmas party. "Remember your promise, Sherlock!" she scolded him, "Be nice!"

When Sherlock was in his bedroom, his eyes fell on the dress she had laid out on his bed.

"Are you wearing that?" he asked incredulously. "Yes, problem?" she asked tersely.

"No, it's just… For God's sakes, it's just a Christmas party, Kira! Not a concerto or some kind of gala!"

"Be nice!" she hissed. The next half hour Sherlock complained about having to change his attire himself as he didn't want to be out-dressed by her. When he finally deemed himself ready for the party, Kyrie quickly hopped out of the bathroom. She had done up her hair in a simple but elegant bun, a few shorter locks framing her face. She had already been done with the finishing touches of her make-up a while ago, but she didn't want to come out as long as Sherlock was still moaning and grumbling about.

Kyrie shimmied into the white dress, luckily there was no zipper! The fabric was supple and smooth and silky to the touch. It was heavenly. She put on a pair of dainty shoes and looked herself over in the mirror. Her mouth dropped open a bit. That was not a look she was used to seeing on herself. The dress fit around her lithe body like a glove, the fabric softly pooling around her feet. The fabric that covered her left breast was different, it was silver coloured and very sparkly and left her left shoulder bare. The rest of the dress was made of a white chiffon, brought together over her right shoulder in a short sculpted sleeve. To finish her look, she was wearing a sparkling silver sash belt, encircling her tiny waist.

And now she worried she was completely overdressed. She closed her eyes in dismay. Sherlock was right! This was just a Christmas party! What the hell was she thinking? Well, too late now. She could already hear the notes of violin play drifting over from the living room.

Taking a fortifying breath, Kyrie timidly made her way to the living room. She noticed Sherlock slowly pacing through the room, swaying a bit as he played 'We wish you a merry Christmas' ending the song with a flourish. He looked quite dashing in his dark wool suit, gabardine weave, and his chocolate brown shirt with a slight sheen to the fabric.

"Lovely, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed enraptured. "That was lovely!"

Someone let out a wolf whistle while Sherlock graciously bowed, receiving the compliments.

"Mmm, marvellous," John agreed, wearing a ridiculous Christmas sweater, carrying a cup of hot cocoa and a beer, "That was very good."

"I wish you could have worn the antlers!" Mrs Hudson said with a laugh.

"Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock assured her with a smile.

"Mrs H.," John said when offering her a drink. A young dark tanned woman approached Sherlock with a tray full of pastries and cookies.

"Oh, no thank you, Sarah," Sherlock said pleasantly. Kyrie smothered a laugh, hearing Sherlock address a different woman by the wrong name this time.

"Eh, no, no, no, no," John said as he hurried to the side of his date, "He's not good with names," he tried to appease her. Sherlock tried to correct his mistake.

"No, no, no, I can get this," he said, waving the bow of his violin about, "No, Sarah was the doctor, and then there was the one with the spots," he closed his eyes in concentration as he strolled around his 'Mind Palace' no doubt, "And then the one with the nose and then… who was after the boring teacher?" he asked, ignoring a very aggravated looking Jeannette and a thoroughly embarrassed John.

"Nobody," Jeannette replied dryly.

"Jeanette!" he finally said with a huge grin, "Ah, process of elimination!"

Kyrie demurely cleared her throat as no one seemed to have noticed her entrance. Yep, definitely overdressed, she thought looking around.

Sherlock was the first to notice her and his huge grin immediately disappeared. Mrs Hudson noticed her secondly and just said, "Oh!" sounding slightly caught off guard. At that moment the remaining three people, Lestrade, John and Jeanette, simultaneously turned around. Lestrade choked on his beer, John's eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets and Jeannette pursed her lips in a very tight line. The room fell so quiet that you could hear the sound of a pin drop. Okay, so apparently it was up to her to break the silence.

"Sorry, for being so late," she excused herself, then stopped because she couldn't find an explanation that wouldn't sound weird. Usually a married couple had no qualms about getting dressed in front of each other.

"You look absolutely stunning," John said, earning him a swat on the arm by Jeanette. "Well, she does!" he defended himself, "Don't you think so, Sherlock?"

Sherlock just stood there, still rooted to his spot, their gazes locking for a brief moment until he put away his violin and took three strides to suddenly stand in front of her, looking down at her with that unreadable expression of his, his eyes glittering with sparks of amber this time.

"Unequivocally exquisite," he said softly, taking her left hand in his, bringing it up to gently brush his lips against her skin. She could tell by his stiff posture that he had absolutely no clue how to act, but by God, he sure was trying his best!"

"I realise that some… two... in this room, two people," Sherlock cleared his throat while he placed her hand on his arm, "Um, are not yet acquainted with my wife. So, err… I'd like to introduce you to…" and he faltered. Kyrie knew that for the life of him, again, he couldn't remember her name.

"Hello," she said sweetly, "I'm Kyrie... Holmes." It was the first time she said those names aloud, in conjunction with each other. She could feel Sherlock relax a bit underneath her hand.

"You have a wife?" Lestrade said in utter shock. "Since when?"

"Since I got married, obviously," Sherlock remarked dryly.

"But, how?"

"You are a married man yourself, figure it out," Sherlock muttered and Kyrie lightly pinched him in the arm to remind him to be nice. She then stepped away from Sherlock and offered her hand to Lestrade. "I have heard so many things about you, Detective Inspector Lestrade," she said sweetly.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, though," she looked him straight in the eyes when she accentuated the word 'finally' as if they had never met before. Granted, they hadn't been properly introduced, but this wasn't the first time they met. His eyes widened a bit and he seemed to get the hint. "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you," he replied in a warm manner and he briefly clasped her hand before releasing her. Kyrie turned to John's date and offered her hand as well.

"And you must be Jeanette, so great to finally meet you as well, John just won't shut up about you! Though I daresay his praise hardly does you justice, you look absolutely beautiful!"

Jeanette blushed at the compliment and shook Kyrie's offered hand in greeting.

"Thanks, I can't say he was as forthcoming about you though. I didn't even know he," she nodded in Sherlock's direction. "... was married."

"I'm glad to hear it," Kyrie smiled. "It would be a sad thing if someone praises his friend's wife instead of being completely taken by his own date!"

Jeanette smiled brightly at her and Kyrie returned to stand by Sherlock's side. "Smooth," he whispered. "Thank you," she grinned.

As the evening carried on, Sherlock seemed to relax a bit more and everyone at least seemed to have a good time.

"Kyrie," John suddenly said. "Grace us with a song, please?" She tensed a bit hearing those words, but found she could hardly say no when Mrs Hudson joined in. "You sing, Kyrie? I didn't know! Oh, sing something for us, will you dear?"

Kyrie felt her stomach twist in a knot and desperately tried to think of an excuse. "You don't have to if you don't want to," Sherlock whispered near her ear, his breath tickling her skin. She turned her head to look up at him and saw the soft look in his eyes, reminding her that she was safe. She nodded slightly. "Sherlock," she asked quietly, "Play with me?"

"Of course, it would be my honour," he said a bit all too formally, but a smirk tugged at his lips. He walked to the back of the room to get his violin and placed it against his shoulder. He looked at her, arching a brow at her.

"Do you know Brindisi?"

"Brindisi?" he repeated in surprise. She grinned, obviously Sherlock had no idea what kind of singer she was.

"Wait," Lestrade interrupted. "Brindisi? Violetta and Alfredo, La Traviata's Brindisi? That… Brindisi?"

"What, you know any other Brindisi's then?" Sherlock mocked.

"Quite a few, actually," Lestrade said and Kyrie smiled at him with joy. "Sorry, to interrupt but… I love the classics. My wife not so much. You… Um, well, you kind of need a baritone…Would you mind?"

"Not at all," Kyrie said happily. "I'd be delighted!"

Lestrade smiled at her and started to walk up to her, when he passed John, he quietly asked "How much of an arse will I make of myself?"

Kyrie tried and failed at suppressing a grin when John quietly replied, "You have no idea."

Since Lestrade was the one who would have to start off the duet, he signalled Sherlock when he could begin. Sherlock started the famous intro impeccably, the warm cheery tones quickly filling the room, pausing for a short moment to indicate that after the next few note's it was up to Lestrade.

"Libiamo, libiamo ne'lieti calici, che la bellezza infiora," Lestrade started to sing, telling his audience to drink with him from the joyous chalices, that beauty so truly enhanced.

Obviously he wasn't a trained opera singer but his deep voice had a nice quality. He fumbled the pronunciation here and there but he most certainly did not look like an idiot. He then ended his part by singing to Violetta _,_ "Libiamo, amore, amor fra i calici, più caldi baci avrà!" He asked her, his love, to drink with him and the love among the chalices would make the kisses warmer.

Lestrade made flourish with his hands, indicating that she could take it away.

"Tra voi, tra voi saprò divider, il tempo mio giocondo," Kyrie sang, telling the people in the room that with them, she could share her happiest times.

She held back a bit at first, still feeling a bit frightened. But, it felt so heavenly to be able to sing, knowing that she did not have to be afraid, it set something free deep inside of her and her voice gained in volume and strength as her sustained airflow allowed her to sing the words perfectly. "Tutto è follia, follia nel mondo ciò che non è piacer." Everything in life, which is not pleasure, is foolish.

"God that voice!" she heard Lestrade mutter in shock at the sound that erupted from her throat. The muscles in her neck and back worked harmoniously as Kyrie completely and utterly lost herself in the music. "Godiamo, c'invita, c'invita un fervido accento lusinghier." So enjoy. A keen and flattering voice invites us!

They turned to each other and because there were no others who could sing the chorus, Lestrade gently took Kyrie's hand in a short waltz as Sherlock provided the chorus solo.

"La vita è nel tripudio." Kyrie sang that life means celebration. And Lestrade answered with, "Quando non s'ami ancora." Only if one hasn't known love.

As the song came to a conclusion, they both sang, "In questo, in questio ne scopra il nuovo dì." Let the new day find us in this paradise. Kyrie's voice rose high and filled the entire flat when she ended the song with the last perfect high note.

For a moment the room was filled with a stunned silence, then Mrs Hudson started clapping her hands and kept saying, "Beautiful, beautiful, oh that was so beautiful!" Jeanette and John joined in the applause, Lestrade grinning a bit awkwardly. Kyrie walked up to him with a radiant smile and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you, so much!" she said sincerely. "I don't often get the chance to sing with someone, I hope I will have the pleasure again sometime."

"Thank you, Mrs Holmes," Lestrade said kindly. "But I'm not sure I can handle being so far out of my depth again."

"I don't know, Graham," Sherlock said with a smirk. "I thought you'd be used to it by now!"

"Oh you!" Lestrade said with a mock frown. "And it's Greg! He always forgets," he muttered to Kyrie who bit her lip to keep from laughing.

John cleared his throat to get their attention. "Thank you, Kyrie. That was… I cannot even think of words that do you justice. But, thank you, I can finally die and rest in peace now. You know what I mean," he said with a wink and Kyrie laughed heartily. "Except for one thing…"

"John," she warned him with a laugh. "Don't you dare…"

"You know what I'm asking, I've asked every single day," John continued.

"Don't do this, John!"

"Figaro, Kyrie. Give me bloody Figaro."

Kyrie hid her face in her hands, her cheeks warmed and she couldn't help but laugh.

"I think we are missing something here," Lestrade said dryly.

"I thought you'd be used to that by now as well," Sherlock retorted.

"Well, we don't know if Sherlock can play that," Kyrie started smugly. "And I'm not going sing that a capella!"

"Figaro?" Sherlock asked. "You mean this?" And immediately he let his bow dance across the strings of his violin, producing the sounds of 'Largo al Factotum' to perfection.

"Et tu, Brute?" Kyrie muttered under her breath while she glared at Sherlock who simply smiled at her and wiggled his brows. She threw her hands up in defeat, she knew when she was bested.

"Fine, but!" she said as she marched out of the living room, "I need to be in a certain… mood if I'm going to pull this off. Be right back," she said with a grin.

Sherlock watched her leave the living room and immediately felt out of his comfort zone again. He realised full well that … damn it… _she_ was the full driving force that had made this evening tolerable, fun, even for him.

The last few week had been odd and confusing for him. Something he didn't like and certainly wasn't accustomed too. First there was that forced kiss. He'd always prided himself of being able to divorce himself from any and all feelings. He always figured that romantic entanglements were useless distractions that would keep him from what was really important. His work. Imagine his surprise when he could feel, from the moment their lips met, a thousand tiny jolts waking every nerve ending in his body, shocks travelling lightning fast through his brain, electricity zapping and crackling from neuron to neuron, his brain activity going through the roof.

It was a sensation he had never experienced before and he had felt curious. What would happen if he would deepen the kiss? And so he had slanted her head, to give himself easier access to what she was willingly offering him. It had been a heady sensation, delving his tongue in the sweetness of her mouth, experiencing the waking of his body, aroused by the intimate touch, while at the same time his mind was making connections at a speed that even he would have thought impossible.

That kiss had brought him such a startling clarity that by the time they broke apart, he knew he had just solved three cases, without even trying. Of course, when he walked away after that kiss, his body firmly protested and he had to exert every ounce of self-discipline to reel in those pesky emotions that had been running haywire.

Ever since that day, Sherlock found himself conflicted and he was uncertain about how to proceed. Then this evening, when she had appeared in the living room, the most clichéd thoughts had entered his mind because the moment he laid eyes on her, he was drawing comparisons to non-existing angelic creatures.

He understood at some level that he was drawn to her, what he didn't know was if he liked it or not. He certainly didn't feel comfortable about it.

And yet, lately it seemed so easy to be around her, so effortlessly, as if she'd always been there. Like John seemed to have always been there. If he had to be completely honest with himself, he had no idea what he'd do without John. That friendship was more important to him than he was willing to admit to even himself.

And then there was her… the woman he was married to, the woman he would be married to for some time, the woman whose name he couldn't remember…

the woman who would, at some point, when everything was safe, would leave his life again. And, even though he could never get her name right… that thought, the knowledge that she would leave sometime, it filled him with emotions he didn't know how to handle.

These were the thoughts that engaged him throughout the evening, and no one even noticed how pre-occupied he was because she made it so that he only needed to laugh and smile at a few given moments, if ever he didn't respond to a joke or a jest, she did it for him. With her by his side, people forgot about his awkwardness and became more accepting. Proof in case, even Jeanette had smiled at him a few times when _she_ was standing next to him.

The biggest surprise, had been when she had asked him if he could play Brindisi. He knew he could play Brindisi of course, but he had wondered for a brief moment whether she'd be able to do it justice. Well, that turned out to be the biggest mind boggling surprise of them all, didn't it?

The moment she opened that mouth of hers and _that_ voice erupted from her and filled the room. And as he stared into those light orbs of blue, suddenly flashing with violet, seeing them intensifying and softening with emotion, that one moment, he completely understood why Gerulf Schricken was so obsessed with her. At first he had thought of her as being forgettable, now he thought she was quite lovely, with her enchanting eyes and a voice a man might die for.

Suddenly Mrs Hudson startled to giggle and Sherlock looked up. For a moment he just stood stock still, not knowing what to feel or how to respond. Several thoughts and feelings warred with each other, leaving him standing, paralysed, for his wife had just returned to the living room. She had drawn a little moustache under her nose and she was wearing… one of his shirts and jackets.

When the others noticed her, a boisterous laughter erupted in the room and _she_ sent him a cheeky grin. In the end, humour was the emotion that won the war inside him and he grinned back at her, accompanied with a wink. She nodded slightly at him and again Sherlock drew his bow against the strings of his violin in a quick staccato, starting the intro of the famous Italian aria.

She entered the living room with a bright, carefree "Lalalaleira, lalalala, Lalalaleira, lalalala!"

Sherlock grinned while he drew his bow against the strings, producing the quick staccato notes, maybe slightly faster than the music called for. She turned around an arched her brow at him.

"Largo al factotum della citta. Largo! La la la la la la la LA!" she sang, her voice sounding a bit deeper and richer than during Brindisi. She looked very proud when she told them to make way for the handyman of the city.

"Presto a bottega che l'alba e gia. Presto! La la la la la la la LA!" Hurrying to his shop now dawn had arrived.

Somehow she just transformed herself and became the famous barber of Seville, her hands and expressive eyes explaining the words she was singing. He smiled when she smugly took the lapels of his jacket when she sang, "per un barbiere, di qualita!" For a barber of quality, of quality!

She continued and pretended, while singing, to drape a barber cape around John. Her voice curled around the words as she kept singing the constant of triplets at an allegro vivace tempo, while pretending to lather a brush with shaving cream, applying it on John's face. And she didn't drop or muffle a single syllable during the quick "Tutti mi chiedono, tutti mi vogliono, donne, ragazzi, vecchi, fanciulle: Qua la parruca... Presto la barba... Qua la sanguigna... Presto il biglietto..."

The words of Figaro, singing how everyone called him, how everyone wanted something of him... women, children, old people, young ones... Here is the wig, the beard is ready, here are the leeches, the letter is ready.

She stepped away from John, pretending that everyone was calling for her, him… When she began to sing: "Figaro... Figaro... Figaro... FigaroFigaroFigaroFigaro... Figaro... Figaro...Figaro!" John could no longer keep from laughing, earning him a few scowls by the others who were completely enraptured.

In the meantime, she, he, Figaro, pleaded with her public to please be calm and approach her one by one, for heaven's sake!

"Figaro! Son qua," she pretended someone called her and she walked over to Lestrade, a quick whistle and "Ehi, Figaro! Son qua." And she walked back over to John, perfectly mimicking how different people called her over.

She threw up her hands in mock despair and sang, "Figaro qua, Figaro la, Figaro qua, Figaro la, Figaro su, Figaro giu, Figaro su, Figaro giu. Pronto prontissimo son come il fumine, sono il factotum della citta." Figaro here, Figaro there, Figaro up, Figaro down. Quick, super quick, I'm like lightening. I'm the handyman of the city.

She repeated della citta a couple of times and Sherlock knew that he now had to perform a perfectly executed quick tremolo for the hardest part of the aria. He shot his bow across the strings back and forth in very short strokes in extremely rapid movements as she commanded everyone's attention by perfectly singing each syllable of the tongue twister that was "Ah, bravo Figaro! Bravo, bravissimo.  
Ah, bravo Figaro! Bravo, bravissimo, a te fortuna, a te fortuna, a te fortuna, non manchera." Ah, well done Figaro! Well done, very good. You will never lack for luck!

She was just full of surprises this evening because she surprised him again by repeating the previous words instead of cutting to a quick lalalalalalalalalalalalalala as a lot of baritones tended to do.

She then finished with the words "Sono il factotum della citta, sono il factotum della citta,  
della citta, della citta. Della citta! La la la la la la la la la!" raising her hands as she sang with power and gusto.

When the last note died, she suddenly seemed to inflate a bit, seemingly very self-conscious. When she received a resounding applause, she smiled shyly. Sherlock felt a curious sensation of intense pride coursing through him. He knew her singing had severely outclassed his own violin play. Instead of feeling embarrassed about it, he felt something much deeper. The feeling was entirely too foreign to be allowed and so he reined it all in again, until he maintained an outward appearance of bored impassivity, save for a few necessary willing smiles.

She quickly excused herself from the living room, most likely shedding herself of his shirt and jacket and getting rid of the moustache that, strangely enough, looked quite endearing on her face.


	10. Christmas Drinkies Gone Bad

Chapter 6-2

While she was gone and Sherlock immediately noticed her … not being there... Until his attention was drawn to the sound of footsteps stumbling up the stairs.

"Oh, dear Lord," Sherlock muttered slightly appalled when Molly Hooper suddenly breezed in with a ridiculous cheery smile plastered on her face. "Hello, everyone," she greeted over-exuberantly, "Sorry, hello. Uh, it said on the door to just come up." She smiled at everyone but her eyes quickly sought his. Fortunately everyone was saying hi and hello giving Sherlock the chance to retreat a little.

"Everybody saying hello to each other, how wonderful!" Sherlock muttered under his breath while John offered to take Molly's coat. "Holy Mary," he suddenly exclaimed when Molly revealed what she had been hiding beneath her coat. Her eyes again timidly sought his but Sherlock kept to the side, while everyone else was fawning over her and complimenting her on the way she looked in a tight fitting black dress with a silver coloured trim along the neckline.

"So, we're having a Christmas drinkies, then?" Molly asked with a giggle. Lestrade walked up to her, drawn to her like a moth.

"No stopping them apparently," Sherlock remarked dryly and he seated himself behind a laptop on the table at the far end of the room. Oh look, it was John's laptop, the web page of his blog still open.

"It's the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me," Mrs Hudson said with a chuckle, raising her drink, "So it's almost worth it."

Sherlock tried to ignore the hopeful glances Molly was sending him, but at the moment he was not in the mood for small talk. He would just say the wrong thing and everyone would get mad again. Ugh… where was … _she_?

"John?" he suddenly asked, "The counter on your blog..." "Hmm?" John asked as he joined him, forgetting about Molly, letting Lestrade offer her a drink.

"It still says 1,895."

"Oh no," John said mockingly, "Christmas is cancelled!"

"And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat!" he exclaimed insulted. Why would John do such a thing? He abhorred that hat!

"People like the hat," John remarked as he started to walk away.

"No they don't!" Sherlock retorted, "What people?"

"Kyrie for one," John said before he joined the others again. The comment threw Sherlock off long enough for John to escape. Kyrie! That was it! That was the name that was always escaping him!

"How's the hip," Molly asked Mrs Hudson and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, it's atrocious," Mrs Hudson replied, basking in the attention, "But thanks for asking."

"It's always atrocious," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"I've seen much worse," Molly tried to sympathise, "But then I do post-mortems."

The room fell silent and everyone, save Sherlock, gave her a look. "Oh, God, sorry!" she cried embarrassed when she realised her mistake. "Whoop-"

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock admonished her from his position.

"No, sorry," Molly apologised again. "Here you are," Lestrade said, offering her a drink which she gratefully accepted from his hand. "I wasn't expecting to see you," she said, trying to make conversation. "I thought you were going to be in Dorset for Christmas?"

"That's first thing in the morning, me and the wife," Lestrade said with a smile, "We're back together, it's all sorted."

"No, she's sleeping with a PE teacher," Sherlock said a bit distractedly, as he was reading whatever nonsense John had written about them in his blog.

"And John, I hear you're off to your sister's, is that right?" Molly asked John. Ugh, she was even worse at mingling than he was, though to be honest, he seemed to have a dependable crutch of late, so no longer that awkward with mingling.

"Yeah," John admitted, sitting closely to Jeanette. "Sherlock was complaining, uhm… saying," Molly said, quickly correcting her little slip up. Was that intentional? Accidental?

"First time ever she's cleaned up her act, she's off the booze," John told.

"Nope," Sherlock countered, popping the p. "Shut up, Sherlock!" John warned him.

Sherlock just knew that next Molly would try and 'mingle' with him. He didn't mingle, he didn't want to mingle, he didn't feel like any mingling if he couldn't fall back on… Sherlock sighed in frustration. Wait, he still had another trick up his sleeve. Divert attention while still… mingling!

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him," Sherlock said with a smile as he turned his head to meet her eyes.

"What?" Molly asked astonished, "Sorry, what?"

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."

"Take a day off," John advised him while Lestrade told him to shut up and have a drink and planted a drink right in front of him. But Sherlock didn't want to let it go. Once he got deducing… he just couldn't stop himself. The big drawback of his brilliance. If you looked close enough, you could see puzzles everywhere!

"Oh, come on, surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag. Perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best."

Molly looked at her bag filled with gifts with a bit of shocked surprise. Sherlock got up and buttoned up his jacket, he knew there was one thing he did best and that was solving puzzles, deducing people. John always was endearingly impressed and in awe when he did that.

"It's for someone special, then," he continued while taking the present from her bag, "The shade of red echoes her lipstick, either an unconscious association or one that's she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has _love_ on her mind."

Sherlock turned the gift around in his hand. "The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all. That always suggests long-term hopes however forlorn…" He stopped for a moment, contemplating his own deduction he just made about Christmas gifts, thinking of the little gift he had waiting in his pocket himself. He shook his head.

"And that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she's wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and her breasts," he said with a chuckle while opening the card that came with the gift. He stumbled on the word 'breasts' however, when he saw what was written in the card. 'Dearest Sherlock, Love Molly xxx' His blood ran cold as realisation dawned on him. Oh Lord… he gulped in remorse. Why did he always do this? Why? Even back in uni, trying to be funny, trying to show off…

The room fell deadly silent of course and Sherlock could feel all eyes on him. The heart that so many people claimed he didn't possess, contracted painfully as again he found himself in a situation where people got all emotional and he just… didn't know what to do. Right now, seeing Molly so sad, he realised he had unintentionally hurt her feelings. And he didn't know what to do. He stood there rooted to his spot. He looked up and saw … Kyrie… standing there, right behind Molly, her fingers to her mouth in silent shock.

"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always," Molly said forlornly, she tried to laugh but sounded like she could break down and cry any moment, "Always."

Sherlock swallowed away a lump of guilt. There wasn't much time, he was running through his Mind Palace like a madman, trying to find _something_ he could do or say to make this right. He couldn't find anything! He looked up at Kyrie as if she held the answer to this situation. Obviously, she'd know exactly what to say or do, she was good at making people feel at ease. But he wasn't her, he didn't know how to do any of that! His eyes suddenly widened. Perhaps he should not act by knowing! Perhaps, this time, he should act by following!

He locked eyes with Kyrie for a brief moment and found her smiling at him encouragingly. He immediately turned to face Molly, "I am sorry," he said simply and sincerely, "Forgive me."  
And then he did what he had seen Kyrie do so many times, to take the sting out of a nasty situation.

He took a step closer, "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper", and he leaned in to place a feather light kiss on her right cheek.

And that's when he received another text. The erotic female moan reverberated through the air.

Molly responded immediately and very very flustered, "Oh, no!" she shrieked, "That wasn't, I didn't…"

"No, it was me," Sherlock quickly came to her defence.

"My God, really?" Lestrade asked at the same time Molly asked, "What?"

"My phone!" Sherlock bit out.

"Fifty-seven?" John asked but Sherlock was already distracted by the text. "Sorry, what?" he asked absent-mindedly while he read the message. "Fifty-seven of those texts," John explained while Sherlock read 'Mantel piece.'

"The ones I've heard," John continued. Sherlock checked the mantel piece as instructed in the text, "Thrilling that you've been counting," he remarked when he found the scarlet red gift, the colour reminiscent of the shade of lipstick The Woman preferred to wear.

"Excuse me," he suddenly said and stalked out of the living room. "What's up, Sherlock?" John called after him. "I said excuse me," he replied tersely as he headed to his bedroom.

"Do you ever reply?" John asked, but Sherlock ignored the remark. He opened the door to his bedroom and quickly sat down on his bed, opening the gift. He found a phone. _Her_ phone. He picked it up and stared at it. Strange… he hadn't thought about her, not a lot, in these past few months. He had been too pre-occupied with a pair of light blue orbs that had the fascinating ability to turn sparkling violet.

But now… all those locked away feelings came rushing back. How exhilarating it had been to play  
The Game with someone who could actually understand him at some level. Someone who was not dull and boring but challenged him at every turn, who shared his love for The Game.

She thrilled him, enticed him, allured him … Irene Adler. The Woman. He knew one thing. She was gone. The Game was over. And it filled him with the foreign feeling of loss. The intensity of that pain suddenly filled him with anger. What had he become? Since when did Sherlock Holmes allow his heart to rule his head? No, no, no… it was the other way around. And it always would be! His head would forever rule his heart, because somehow, and he didn't know why, but that was the only way to keep his heart safe. There was something he couldn't quite grasp… _"The Eastern wind is coming…"_ He shook his head vehemently.

No! Enough! Self-loathing poured through his veins like acid. How stupid he'd been to forget the one lesson his brother had always taught him, caring was not an advantage! He put the phone down in cold resignation. Time for a phone call.

"Oh dear Lord," he heard his brother drawl on the other end of the line, "We're not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?"

"I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight," Sherlock told his brother, as he noticed John approaching from the corner of his eye.

"We already know where she is," Mycroft told him, "As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters."

"No, I mean you're going to find her dead," Sherlock explained. He then ended the call and got up. "Are you okay?" John asked him on the other side of the door. "Yes," he replied and quickly closed the door. For a moment he stared out of the window. Snow was falling. A white Christmas. It meant absolutely nothing to him.

He took a deep breath and stalked out of his bedroom. He quickly donned his beloved Belstaff coat and wrapped the scarf around his neck. "I'm going out," Sherlock said tersely before he left, not feeling the need to elaborate any further.

It was well into the night when Sherlock and Mycroft hurried through the hallways of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. They were heading to the morgue where Molly Hooper was already waiting for them.

"The only who fitted the description," Mycroft said. "Had her brought here. Your home from home," he quipped.

"You didn't need to come in, Molly," Sherlock said to the young woman, ignoring his brother's remark.

"It's okay," she assured him with a slight smile. Her hair was hanging loose and she wore a ridiculous Christmas sweater. She was much more pleasing to look at this way though.

"Everyone else was busy with… Christmas. Um, the face is a bit sort of bashed-up, so it might be a bit difficult," she apologised in advance as she moved to remove the white sheet to reveal the head of the body lying on the cold slab. Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow. Molly had been right though, he couldn't make a positive ID just by looking at the severely bruised and mangled face.

"That's her, isn't it?" Mycroft asked.

"Show me the rest of her," Sherlock asked curtly, his hands thrust deep inside his pockets. To keep them warm and to keep the others from seeing how he was clenching his fists.

Molly did as she was asked and showed him the rest of the body. He quickly glanced her up and down, a coldness settling down heavy inside of him. "That's her," he confirmed and turned around to leave the room.

Outside in the hallway, Sherlock stood near a window. Silently watching the snowflakes tumble down from the sky. Other than the grim cold inside of him, he felt nothing. Suddenly the door behind him opened and he heard the footsteps of his brother draw near.

"Just the one," Mycroft said. Sherlock looked up and saw the cigarette offered to him.

"Why?" he asked.

"Merry Christmas."

He took it without hesitation. "Smoking indoors," he said, "Isn't there one of those … one of those law things?" he asked, hardly believing his brother offered him something he now realised he was craving. Not caring one way or the other, Sherlock brought the cig to his lips and puffed the cigarette by drawing in his breath when Mycroft lit it for him.

"We're in a morgue," Mycroft said as Sherlock eagerly sucked the smoke with a long, appreciative intake of air and let the smoke slowly fill his lungs.

"There's only so much damage you can do," he continued while Sherlock enjoyed the sensation of smoke captured inside his lungs. He inhaled softly, drawing air into his lungs and then he expelled the smoke and air on an exhale. He sighed, relishing this rare opportunity.

"How did you know she was dead?" Mycroft asked.

"She had an item in her possession. One she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up," Sherlock explained as he brought the cigarette back to his lips.

"Where is this item now?" Mycroft asked, as the sound of weeping reached them from the other side of the door. It drew Sherlock's attention and he turned his head to watch a family standing there, mourning, seeking comfort with each other.

"Look at them," he said softly, "They all care so much." He kept staring at the emotional display of despair and sorrow. "Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" he suddenly asked.

"All lives end, all hearts are broken," Mycroft stated coldly. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock," he concluded, turning his head sideways to look at him.

Sherlock took another drag on his cigarette. "I know," he said just as cold right before he exhaled on a bit of a cough. Now that his first craving had been sated, he realised the cigarette was disgusting. "This is low tar," he said in revulsion.

"Well, you barely knew her," Mycroft told him. "Huh," Sherlock said, almost in humour, almost as if Mycroft had just told him a joke.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft," Sherlock said as he walked away. "And a Happy New Year," his brother called after him.

Mycroft watched his younger brother walk away and sighed in disappointment. He knew that, even though he always told Sherlock that caring is not an advantage, Sherlock simply wasn't wired that way. He just believed he was.

And Mycroft had looked after him all these years, kept a close eye on his mental state, telling him over and over again that caring, loving, was a defect. He'd been waiting for Sherlock to one day turn around and yell in his face that he was wrong. He was still waiting for that day.

With Sherlock surprisingly having a formed an attachment to Kyrie and her obvious mutual affection, Mycroft had dared hope that day would soon be arriving. He would then finally be able to, partially, redeem himself for his part in the horrible tragedy that had befallen them so many years ago.  
With another drawn out sigh, Mycroft took out his phone and made a call. Tonight that day seemed further away than ever.

"He's on his way," Mycroft said when his call was accepted. "Have you found anything?"

"No," John said, "Did he take the cigarette?"

"Yes," Mycroft said with a slight sigh.

"Shit!" John exclaimed. "He's coming, ten minutes," Mycroft heard John say to someone. "There's nothing in the bedroom," he then heard Kyrie say. "Nothing in the living room either," that was Mrs Hudson.

"Well, it looks like he's clean," John said back in the phone, "We've tried all the usual places. Are you sure tonight's a danger night?"

"No," Mycroft replied a he slowly walked down the hospital hallway, "But then I never am. You have to stay with him, John."

"But, Kyrie…"

"He won't accept Kyrie's help," Mycroft interjected, "Not tonight anyway."

John was silent for a moment, seemed to want to disagree, but couldn't. That meant John had seen and recognised the state his little brother was currently in. He feared that Kyrie would see a whole new side of Sherlock tonight, one he'd hoped she'd never see.

"How would you know?" John just asked.

"I just do. Stay with him, John," Mycroft ordered this time.

"I've got plans," John tried feebly.

"No," Mycroft said before he ended the call.

"Mycroft…" John said, before he sighed deeply and then tucked away his phone. Kyrie looked up at him with worry. He said nothing but wordlessly made his way over to the couch where Jeanette was still waiting for him, looking very displeased.

"I am really sorry," John apologised when he sat down. Kyrie worried her lip. Yeah, this was a good moment to leave the love birds alone. Judging the look on Jeanette's face though, they wouldn't be love birds for long. Kyrie quietly got up from Sherlock's chair and hurried through the kitchen. The moment she was out of sight, but not yet out of earshot, she heard Jeanette's voice, dripping with sarcasm. "You know, my friends are so wrong about you," she said.

"Hmm?"

"You are a great boyfriend."

Oh, poor John! Kyrie thought. She instinctively knew where this was going.

"Okay, that's good… I mean, I always thought I was great…"

Kyrie rolled her eyes. Yeah, she would just wait for Jeanette to inevitably leave, seems John could soon use the company.

"And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man," Jeanette continued. And there it was.

"Ooooh," John sighed in dismay, "Jeanette, please."

"No, I mean it," she said and Kyrie could hear her get up from the couch, "It's heart-warming. You'll do anything for him."

"He's married, Jeanette, for crying out loud," John sighed.

"Does he even know that?" she asked, "Because I don't think he got the memo! And he can't even tell your girlfriends apart!"

"He can't even remember his wife's name!" John called out as he went after her. Great John, thanks, Kyrie thought. Why not put it in the papers that Sherlock bloody Holmes was a genius, but couldn't even remember the name of his wife for longer than a few hours? That way he could make her humiliation complete.

"Come on, I'll do anything for _you_! Just tell me what it is I'm not doing, tell me!" Oh, poor John. He just didn't get it.

"Don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes!" Jeanette pleaded. And there it was, again. That was always what John's girlfriends did… they made it into a competition. A competition they would always, always lose.

"I'll walk your dog for you," John tried desperately. Oh dear…

"There, I've said it now, I'll even walk your dog."

"I don't have a dog!" Jeanette cried out, utterly insulted.

"No, because that was the last one. Okay," John said in resignation as he realised his mistake.

Jeanette cursed at him and angrily stomped down the stairs. "I'll call you," John still tried.

"No!"

"Okay…" John groaned and went back to the living room. "That really wasn't very good, was it?"  
Mrs Hudson lightly admonished John. He just sighed. Kyrie walked over and gently gave Mrs Hudson a hug. "You go downstairs, I'll keep him company," she promised.

"You're a dear," Mrs Hudson said softly, "Thank you for tonight… That was you the other day, wasn't it?" the landlady suddenly asked, "When I thought you'd been listening to some opera."

"Good night, Mrs Hudson," Kyrie said with a smile before she joined John who was cradling his head in his hands.

Kyrie went to sit at his feet and gently placed her hand on his knee. He raised his head to look her in the eyes and let out a deep breath with a shaky, sad smile.

"I really did it again, didn't I?" he asked softly.

"It's not your fault, John," Kyrie said and she leaned her chin against his leg while she looked up at him. "You should stop going for the young ones with no life experience, try and find a more motherly type," she advised.

"Motherly type? How so?"

"John, you just have to find a nice woman with a nurturing instinct. Someone who can accept the fact that you're a dad with shared custody. That way there won't be any competition."

He snorted at her comment.

"Because it's a competition they will always lose, won't they?" she asked softly.

He looked at her with a sad smile and nodded. "How about you, though?" he asked with a bit of a croak, "We both know he doesn't love you, never will either. This…" he looked around, "will end at some point. What then?"

"Well, you'll get full custody for one," she said, trying to make a joke, even though she could feel tears stinging her eyes. "Ah John," she sighed, "I guess am ruined for life. Because, after all this… all the mayhem, the craziness, the insults, who could even stand in his light?" she asked wistfully.

"You love him, don't you?" he asked quietly.

Kyrie averted her eyes and turned her head. She thought back to the cold despair that had gripped her when she had seen the red dot dance over his heart. "Yes," she whispered softly. "God help me, but yes, I do."

John let out a shaky breath.

"Well," he said, "I guess we are both screwed then."

"Thoroughly and utterly screwed," she agreed.

They sat in companionship like that for a while when suddenly approaching footsteps made them look up.

"Oh, hi," John said when Sherlock suddenly walked into the living room. Sherlock looked around, scanned the room until his gaze settled on her, at John's feet. There was a coldness lurking in his eyes that made her shiver, as if someone was dripping ice water down her back. He suddenly turned around and walked away in the direction of his bedroom. "I hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time," he said curtly.

John looked at her and they both sighed. "I'll try and talk with him," she offered and she got up to pick up the gift she had waiting for him on the kitchen table.

When she entered his bedroom, she found him staring out of the window. He didn't acknowledge her presence when she walked in. She placed the gift on his bed and then walked over to him to place a gentle hand on his arm. He was still wearing his Bellstaff coat, as though he might turn around and flee the room at any moment. She shivered a bit as the watery remains of melted snow flakes chilled her skin.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" she asked quietly.

At first he didn't respond. But then… He whirled around with a snarl, his coat twirling around his legs and he roughly shoved her away.

"You. Leave me. Alone!" he hissed at her, even baring his teeth as he spat out the words.

Kyrie felt the edge of his bed bump harshly against the back of her legs as she stumbled backwards by the force of his shove.

She wordlessly turned around and fled to her own little room, without sparing him a second glance, and slammed the door closed behind her. It had been such a lovely evening. She had felt so care free, happy even, basking in the warmth and friendship of loved ones. But most of all she had enjoyed being by his side, singing as he played the violin. Such a lovely evening. Completely shattered with one single text.


	11. Not So Dead

Chapter Seven.

The next morning Kyrie waited till Sherlock left the room. She wasn't ready be to around him alone yet. When she heard him leave, she quietly opened her door. It had been the very first time she had slept with the door completely closed.

As she was often still haunted by nightmares and the tiny room was so dark at night, with no windows, she had always left the door slightly ajar. The sounds of Sherlock's light slumber always soothed her, and the indirect moon light made her tiny little space less dark and lonely.

Last night, she didn't want to be witness to his … whatever it was he experienced. He didn't want her around. Somehow she'd known that even her close proximity at the other side of her door, was grating on his nerves.

With Sherlock blissfully out of the way, Kyrie quickly dressed herself in a pair of light grey formal pants, with a satin weave and a soft pink long sleeve that fell down in soft pleats from the neck down, finishing in a raw, ribbed banding around the bottom. She carefully cleaned her face, erasing all signs of make-up and her distress of the previous night. She tied her hair back in a simple pony tail, allowing a few stray locks to frame her face.

When she closed the door behind her, she could hear the mournful tones of the violin drifting her way. It was beautiful, haunting, not something she'd ever heard him play before.

John put on his coat and nodded slightly at her, clearly eager to escape the gloom that had descended on 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson cleared away the breakfast plates and showed Kyrie that Sherlock hadn't touched any of it. She nodded in understanding.

When Mrs Hudson scraped off the remains in the bin, Kyrie noticed the remnants of the wrapping paper of her gift, the little note on top of it. She swallowed a lump away.

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge her presence when she stood behind John's couch, resting her hands on top of the blanket that was draped over it. He just put his violin down and scribbled something on a music sheet.

"Lovely tune, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said quite insincerely, "Haven't heard that one before."

John cleared his throat. "You composing?" he asked. "Helps me to think," Sherlock replied as he scribbled down another note, before he turned away to resume his play.

"What are you thinking about?" John asked as the sad tones filled the room again.

Suddenly the music stilled, Sherlock put down his violin and whipped around, an almost feverish look in his shock blue eyes, all traces of the gold amber absent. "The count on your blog is still stuck at 1,895," Sherlock suddenly said.

"Yes," John said, mildly confused, "Faulty, can't seem to fix it."

"Faulty," Sherlock said, "Or you've been hacked and it's a message." His thumbs rapidly pressed the keys of the phone. His little gift. His eyes widened a bit in anticipation, right before he hit the OK button. His lips tightened in a grim line and he snapped the phone closed. "Just faulty," he muttered and turned around to pick up his violin again.

"Right," John said, "Well, I'm going out for a bit." No response, Sherlock just kept playing. John turned around and briefly locked eyes with Kyrie, "Sorry," he mouthed. She nodded in understanding and didn't blame him. She would probably head out in a bit as well.

Before John left, Kyrie couldn't help but overhear his whispered conversation with Mrs Hudson. "Listen," he began, "Has he ever had any kind of um… girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?"

"I don't know," Mrs Hudson said, "The only girl I've ever seen him with and warm up to is…" she stopped there.

"How can we not know?" John whispered a bit loud in aggravation.

"He's Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said as if that explained everything. "How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?"

Kyrie heard John jingle his keys. "Right, see you." John departed with those words and Mrs Hudson left to busy herself with her own stuff. Kyrie was suddenly alone in the room with Sherlock after all and he still didn't acknowledge her being there.

She felt herself undecided about what to do, just leave and say nothing, say something and then leave. She'd experienced a lot of his difficult moods, but with this one…

Suddenly Sherlock's hand stilled and the music died, "Just leave," he said quietly. The venom and coldness were gone from his voice. He sounded tired and empty. He returned to his mourning and Kyrie did just that… leave.

The next few days were sort of rinse and repeat. Either Kyrie or Mrs Hudson made breakfast, John and Kyrie would eat, Sherlock would not touch his food… any food… and submersed himself in the sorrowful melody of the song he was composing for The Woman, using the music paper he had gotten as a Christmas gift from his wife.

New Year's Eve was ever drawing near. The glum atmosphere in their flat in Baker Street was a contrast to the joy and mirth just a few evenings ago. John would go out, Mrs Hudson would go about her running the flat and Kyrie often found herself wandering the streets of London by herself. If Sherlock was at all worried about her well-being, even though they hadn't seen her heard of Gerulf after that one afternoon, he certainly did not show it.

On New Year's Eve, Kyrie had went out to do some last minute shopping and was on her way back home. John had left early out again and Kyrie had been determined to at least end the year on somewhat of a hopeful note. Sherlock could be his moody self for all she cared.

Kyrie was fumbling for her keys when she noticed something odd… The door to the flat was already open. Pushing the door open with her boot, Kyrie called out. "Mrs Hudson, I'm back! Are you okay? The door was open!"

Her eyes fell on the large bucket with Mrs Hudsons cleaning aids. How odd, she would never just leave them about like that.

Upstairs she heard muffled sounds, a thud and suddenly the anguished scream of Mrs Hudson calling out for Sherlock. Kyrie could feel her heart skip several beats, she dropped her bag with groceries and her blood seemed to freeze in her veins. Where the hell was Sherlock? He'd been cooped up in their apartment for days, and now… now that something was so very wrong… where was he?

Kyrie looked up, her heart straining as if a flock of birds was trying to erupt from her chest. She raced up the stairs, not thinking clearly and crashed through the door as she yelled for Mrs Hudson. The sight that greeted her stopped her dead in her tracks.

"What?" she managed to choke out as she witnessed a muscularly built man forcefully strike Mrs Hudson in the face. Without thinking she launched herself at the man, her arms clinging around his neck as she had every intent to choke the life out of him.

It took her a few moments to realise that not a whole lot was happening. She changed tactics and started hammering down at the man with her fists. Mrs Hudson started sobbing and urged Kyrie to just flee and find Sherlock. When the man was tired of her antics, he just pulled her away from him and hurled her against the wall ahead. Her back connected with the hard surface first, knocking the wind right out of her, and then her head snapped back against the wall, the force of the hit making her dizzy. She dropped from the wall onto the couch below her and for a brief moment she only saw black.

"Where is the phone?"

Kyrie turned her head in the direction of the voice and suddenly noticed there was not one, not two, but three behemoths towering over her and Mrs Hudson. She yelped when one of the men dragged her from the couch and his hand clamped around her throat like a steel vice.

"I don't know, I don't know!" Mrs Hudson sobbed over and over again.

"Have you tried tracking it, if you can't find your bloody phone?" Kyrie hissed. The only response she got was fingers painfully tightening around her throat until she was choking.

"Don't kill her, we may still need her," another man said. "Now, tell us where the phone is, or we will hurt her, badly!"

"I told you, I don't know. I swear I don't know! Please don't hurt her! I don't know what you're talking about," Mrs Hudson sobbed.

"Oh, Sherlock Holmes too much for you to handle? Is that it?" Kyrie choked out, "Torturing his landlady because you're too afraid to confront the man himself?"

"Kyrie, don't… please," Mrs Hudson begged.

"Maybe you know where the phone is?"

"I must have left it in my other purse!" Kyrie said and she spat him in the face.

"I tend to believe you, old lady, maybe you really don't know where the phone is," the man said as he lifted up Kyrie, her feet losing contact with solid ground, "The thing is, I need to make absolutely sure…"

With that, Kyrie's face suddenly smacked against the table with a sickening thud. Mrs Hudson screamed as Kyrie gasped in horrified surprise, as warm blood filled her mouth and her vision blurred.

She was pulled back and before she could comprehend it, her face made contact with the unyielding wooden surface again. Kyrie could feel her teeth cut through her lips and managed a soft moan.

"That's enough," she heard that bastard say. "Put the old bat over there." Kyrie couldn't see what 'over there' meant as she was still slumped over the table. "Bring the other one over here and put her in the chair. With those words Kyrie got lifted from the table and someone dumped her in one of the kitchen chairs.

"They don't know anything, let's do what this bitch suggested and wait for the man himself."

Kyrie could hear the sound of a gun cocking and soon she felt the cold steel of the barrel prod against the back of her head. Mrs Hudson was very upset and kept crying and snivelling. She knew the poor woman was beside herself with fear.

"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson," she said softly, "We'll be fine. He'll come for us, I swear."

"I know he will," she whimpered, "Oh, look at what they did to you! You need a doctor!"

"I'm fine," Kyrie whispered, "He hits like a girl."

"Please, don't say things like that," Mrs Hudson pleaded. "Don't make them-"

A punch to Kyrie's face made the world explode behind her eyes until all she could see was a vibrant cerulean hue with sparks of green and shocks of gold.

In the meantime, Sherlock managed to follow John to an abandoned warehouse. John had his phone with him. Sherlock knew his e-mail and password settings. It had been a simple matter of following the dot. He quietly closed in on the location, until he heard voices drifting over to him.

"Tell him you're alive," he could hear John's voice.

"I can't."

The sound of that unexpected voice churned his insides. She wasn't dead? These past days he had mulled over the events in his head, looked at them from every possible angle, trying to find out if there was something he could have done to prevent… and she wasn't dead?

"Fine," John burst out, "I'll tell him and I still won't help you."

Sherlock looked up when he heard John turn on his heels. "What do I say?" Irene asked, a nervous edge to her usual sultry voice.

"What do you normally say?" John cried out, "You texted him a lot!"

"Just the usual stuff," she huffed.

"There is no usual in this case!" John countered.

"Good morning, I like your funny hat," Irene started to read samples of the texts she'd sent him. "I'm sad tonight, let's have dinner. Hmm, you look sexy on Crimewatch, let's have dinner. I'm not hungry. Let's have dinner."

Sherlock shivered when Irene so casually read aloud the texts.

"You… flirted… with Sherlock Holmes?" John asked incredulously.

"At him," Irene corrected, "He never replies."

"No, Sherlock always replies, to everything," John said, "He's Mr Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word,"

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at that astute characterisation.

"Does that make me special?" Irene wondered.

"Oh God, I hope not," John said.

"Are you jealous?" she asked in a sultry tone.

"I'm angry," he explained. "Because he's married and you know it. And still, still you keep sending him these texts. You know, in the flat he has someone waiting for him who, God knows why, actually cares for him. Deeply. You only care about playing some stupid game."

"What?" Irene chuckled, "That simpering girl? She's no match for Sherlock! She would burn by his intensity alone. He doesn't want a girl! He wants a woman! Someone who understands… The Game, not just A game. THE Game, the only one worth playing!"

"That's where you are wrong," John disagreed, "He needs something else. Something even he craves, wants, needs, yearns for… and the idiot doesn't even know he already has it."

"I guess we'll find out what he wants, won't we? There, I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."

Sherlock didn't move from his spot. He simply stretched out his hand, held up his phone, and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. A female erotic moan ripped the silence apart. He then turned off his phone, pocketed it and walked away.

He walked down the streets in a haze. His head was reeling with all kinds of different thoughts but he couldn't get a clear grasp on them. He had admired Irene Adler.

He had played The Game with her and it had been exhilarating. But he had always, always, kept his emotions separated from The Game. Because after all, no matter how thrilling and addictive it was, it was a game. Now, it turned out, The Woman had completely flipped The Game upside down and turned it around and it had become an entirely different game. One he did not know how to play. One he did not want to play. But she had tempted him right into it. Emotions suddenly tainting the game, feelings that did not, should not, be a part of it.

And all this time, only one woman had allowed him to actually play and enjoy the game for what it was. Even though she could never fully join him, understand him, or even keep up with him when he played The Game, she let him and supported him.

She had even encouraged him to look at The Game from a different angle and perspective. Where one woman had tainted The Game, the other had done nothing but try and preserve it. And he had coldly pushed her aside without any regard at all for her feelings. As he so often had done. As she had so often forgiven him for.

All these thoughts tumbled through his mind as Sherlock, for once, walked to streets of London instead of taking a taxi. All these thoughts then suddenly tumbled to a sudden stop, when Sherlock's attention was drawn to the lock of the door. There were visible signs of the damage done to the lock when it was tampered with. Sherlock felt the blood in his veins turn to acid when he quietly opened the outside door. He placed his left hand against the matte glass of the inner door and slowly pushed the door open, preparing his mind to be able to quickly absorb every tiny detail that would tell him what the hell was going on here! He stepped through the door, his gaze drawn to Mrs Hudson's door, the one that was currently ajar. From there his gaze swept over the abandoned bucket with cleaning aids and the spilled groceries that had tumbled on the floor. The connection eluded him for the moment.

His gaze fell to the scuff marks of boots left on the wall right above the steps of the stairs leading to his apartment. He imagined how those particular scuff marks could have been made and saw with his mind's eyes the image of a man walking up the stairs backwards. Carrying something, something heavy, not looking where he was placing his foot, scraping against the wall as he climbed up.

There were more marks, but different. Someone not moving backwards but forward, more men then.

His eyes drifted to scratch marks and small rips in the wall paper. He gingerly touched a small rip as he imagined a familiar hand clawing desperately at the wall, as she was forcibly carried upstairs. Her nails catching as she couldn't prevent from being dragged along against her wishes. Oh, Mrs Hudson would have been so afraid. She would have yelled for him.

The groceries on the floor… He swallowed. He saw the connection now. She had come home. Home… She belonged here. Every bit as much as he did, as John did, as Mrs Hudson did. This was her Home. Kira… no… Kylie… no, no… Carla? Definitely no. He moved towards the stairs, saw the skid marks of her boots on the steps where she had stumbled, in a hurry to protect Mrs Hudson.

Why couldn't he just remember her name? There had to be something in his Mind Palace he could use! His eyes widened. But of course! In his mind he conjured the image of their marriage register. Sherlock Holmes and… He sighed when he finally saw the letters appear. Kyrie… Ellison. Kyrie Eleison.

Sherlock chuckled when at last he understood. He'd always wondered why her parents had chosen such an unusual name. Lord, have mercy.

As he imagined Kyrie's desperate flight up the stairs, he followed in her footsteps.


	12. Thrown out with the Trash

**A/N** **I d** **on't remember how to rate separate chapters** **(if that's still even possible)** **. But, we all know where we are in SiB, so we know there will be violence. And Sherlock getting in touch with his sadistic side.** **This chapter was edited on 3/27/18 after a suggestion made by elbafo. Thank you for pointing this out!**

The door creaked ominously when Sherlock slowly pushed it open and entered his living room.

An agent to his left was holding Mrs Hudson who immediately started to whimper when she noticed his arrival. Sherlock's eyes however, were drawn to the slumped over figure in the chair. Gun pointing at her head. Blood staining her shirt. Her head hanging down, making it impossible to determine the extent of damage that was done to her. Not that it mattered. They had drawn blood. They shouldn't have.

"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson whimpered in fear.

"Don't snivel, Mrs Hudson," he said as he walked further into the room, "It'll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet." His eyes lingered on Kyrie briefly before he raised his eyes in a stone cold glare.

"What a tender world that would be," he said, recognising the American he had encountered before, in Irene Adler's villa.

"Oh, please, sorry, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson whispered raising her hands up in a plea for help.

"I believe you have something that we want, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, until he stood right in front of Kyrie.

"Then why don't you ask for it," he suggested. He reached out his hand and gently placed his fingers under her chin, gingerly tilting up her head while at the same time positioning his fingers in such a way so he could check her pulse… a bit irregular, but otherwise still strong. He showed no outward sign of his inner turmoil, but he could feel his stomach turn at the sight of her face. Cuts and bruises marred her features, her lips were a bloody mess and apparently she had a broken nose. Her skin looked deathly pale and her eyes were closed with her eyelashes resting still against her skin, like the broken wings of a butterfly.

Mrs Hudson whimpered and cried softly, seeing what had been done to her.

"Oh, I've been asking that one," his American friend said, nodding at Mrs Hudson, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "She doesn't seem to know anything. Not even when we started _asking_ … this one. But you know what I'm asking for, don't you, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock noticed the rip in Mrs Hudson's sweater, the bruises forming on her cheek. He took in every cut and bruise inflicted on Kyrie's face and the blood stains on the ring that man was wearing.

When Sherlock looked up to level his gaze, he was already contemplating the points he could inflict a maximum amount of pain without it being lethal.

"I believe I do," he growled softly before he recomposed himself and straightened himself up, standing ramrod straight. He clasped his hands behind his back again and regarded the American with a stony gaze.

"Oh, please, help," Mrs Hudson pleaded pitifully.

"First get rid of your boys," Sherlock demanded.

"Why?"

"I dislike being outnumbered," he said coldly, "It makes for too much stupid in the room."

"You two, go to the car," the American ordered his cronies, his eyes not losing contact with Sherlock.

"Then get into the car and drive away," Sherlock said, "Don't try to trick me, you know who I am, it doesn't work," he drawled and couldn't help but to stress the last K a bit.

The American and Sherlock kept glaring at each other, while the two 'guard dogs' obeyed their master and made themselves scarce.

"Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me," Sherlock commanded.

"So you can point a gun at me?" the American scoffed.

Sherlock simply spread his arms, "I'm unarmed."

"Mind if I check?"

"Oh, I insist," Sherlock replied and he kept his expression polite, almost pleasant.

Mrs Hudson was beside herself. "Don't do anything…" she pleaded but couldn't finish her sentence.

With slow measured steps, the American approached Sherlock. He briefly checked the insides of his coat fronts on either side. Sherlock rolled his eyes when he felt the American pat his back, because obviously that's where he was most likely to hide a weapon, between his shoulders where it was so easy to hide and get to a weapon, Sherlock thought sarcastically.

Then, as the man was still subjecting Sherlock to a search, Sherlock quickly reached inside his coat and grabbed the hidden canister he had nicked from Mrs Hudson's bucket. He whirled around, coat flinging around him, and sprayed the contents of the canister in the American's eyes. The man groaned in pain as it could hardly be comfortable when an aggressive cleaning solution was burning in your eyes. Sherlock gave the man a decisive head butt for good measure. That seemed to take care of that problem, at least for the time being.

Sherlock twirled the canister in his hands. "Moron!" he scoffed as he slammed the canister down on the small table.

With just two steps he reached Kyrie and knelt in front of her.

"Oh, thank you," Mrs Hudson whimpered over and over while Sherlock soothingly shushed her. "You're all right now, you're all right," though he wasn't exactly sure who he was saying it to.

"Come, Mrs Hudson, here, let me help you. There, let's get you seated on the couch. Now, I am going to call the police shortly, but first I need to check on her, all right?" he said as he guided Mrs Hudson to the couch.

"Yes, oh yes, of course," she said.

Sherlock went back to Kyrie, knelt down again and gently cupped her face with his hands, tilting it upwards. Her face was entirely too pale. Strands of hair were sticking to her face in blood, so he gently smoothed them away.

"Kyrie, can you hear me? Open your eyes for me, can you do that for me?" he pleaded in a soft voice. He gingerly stroked her cheek in comforting movements as he softly kept asking her to open her eyes.

"It's all right now, I'm here. I'm here."

His heart constricted painfully again when he saw her face contort in pain as she struggled to open her eyes. Her lashes fluttered softly against her cheek, then she gingerly blinked her eyes open and gazed at him with unfocused eyes. Sherlock swallowed a gasp. A soft sigh escaped her shredded lips as if she tried to say something.

"Shh, don't talk, don't... you'll be fine, I promise". He softly settled her head against his shoulder and carefully wrapped his arms around her as a crushing wave of relief washed through him. She was hurt, she would need time to heal, but she was alive. She wasn't lost to him, she was still there. He placed his left arm under her knees and made sure her head was still resting safely against his shoulder, before he raised himself up and carried her with him.

Mrs Hudson wanted to start her whimpering again when she looked at the still form he carried in his arms, but a stern look from him made her go quiet. He gently laid her down in the couch and his eyes searched Mrs Hudson's in a silent plea to stay with Kyrie.

When he stood up again, the soft smile dropped from his face. Cold silent outrage coursed through him as he turned around and none too gently grabbed the American and dragged him along, just to fling him in the exact same chair Kyrie had just sat on.

He found rope, he found industrial tape. He made sure the American wouldn't be able to do anything once he'd come to.

He then grabbed a piece of paper from the table and quickly scribbled a message on it. 'Crime in progress, please disturb.' Sherlock bounded down the stairs and secured the note under the brass knocker. He raced up the stairs again, positioned himself in the chair near the couch, so he could keep a vigilant eye on Mrs Hudson with her frayed nerves and Kyrie with her unfocused eyes.

Soon Sherlock heard a familiar set of footsteps bounding up the stairs. "What's going on?" John asked before he even entered the living room. He stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed the American propped up in the chair, his mouth taped shut with industrial tape.

"What the hell is happening?" John demanded to know as the American glared at him.

"Mrs Hudson and Kyrie have been attacked by an American," Sherlock said from his little corner. He held his phone to his ear with one hand and pointed the pistol at the American with his other hand. "I'm restoring balance to the universe," he remarked dryly.

Only then did John notice the visibly upset landlady sitting meekly in the couch, careful as not to accidentally bump against Kyrie who was lying very still.

"Oh. Mrs Hudson, my God, are you all right?" John started, until his eyes fell on Kyrie. "Holy Mary of… What the hell!" he cried out. "What the bloody hell have they done to you?" John looked very much appalled by the display of violence that met him.

He rushed to her side and pulled out his trusted little penlight from the inside of his pocket. John carefully lifted her eyelids and checked out the response of her pupils by flashing the penlight briefly into her eyes. Without disturbing her, he then gently prodded and inspected her head.

"Sherlock, she needs to get checked up in the hospital. Broken nose and, as far as I can tell, she's got a severe concussion. She'll have to stay overnight to make sure there's no internal haemorrhaging."

"On it," Sherlock simply said.

John got to his feet and quickly hugged Mrs Hudson to his side and after another look at Kyrie, he sent a glowering glare in the direction of the American. Mrs Hudson broke apart, "Oh, I'm just being so silly," she cried. "But just look at that they've done to our lovely girl!" John hugged the woman tightly.

Sherlock got up from the chair. "Downstairs," he said to John. "Take her downstairs and look after her." He didn't want her to stick around. Mrs Hudson had seen enough violence for the day, she did not have to see more.

John obeyed immediately and supported Mrs Hudson as he headed for the door.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" John asked as he walked up to where Sherlock was standing. "I expect so," Sherlock said impatiently, "Now go." Sherlock kept the gun trained at the criminal, while waiting for some police trainee to put Lestrade on the phone. It was difficult to keep all the anger inside at bay. How he would love to put a bullet in that offensive brain. But no, that would be much too easy, much too merciful and much too quick. He wanted the American to suffer.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock asked when he heard someone call his name on the other end of the line. "We've had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance. Oh, no no no no no, we're fine. Mostly fine. Except…" he paused and turned around to look at Kyrie who had her eyes open now and was regarding him with a tired bleary look.

"It's Kyrie," he finally admitted, "She's hurt. She err… got banged up pretty bad. A broken nose and John suspects a bad concussion. Needs to be checked. And the burglar err… he's got himself rather badly injured as well."

A sardonic smile tugged at his lips. "Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull, suspected punctured lung…" Sherlock turned to face the American, making sure he understood what was coming.

The American looked up at him and oh look, there it was, the expression Sherlock had been waiting for. Dread.

"He fell out of a window."

With those words Sherlock ended the call. He stared at the American intently, his hands were positively itching, but first he moved back over to Kyrie. She was on her side, her knees lightly bend as if she'd been trying to curl herself into a ball, but couldn't find the strength to pull it off. He found her looking up at him and he quickly knelt beside her, touching his fingers to her bruised face.

"Hey," he whispered softly and had no idea what to say to her. What to do, to make things right. "You're all right. And… we'll be okay. We'll… we'll be okay. Now, just rest, all right?" He leaned over her to place his lips near her ear, his breath tickling her skin. He clenched his eyes shut for a moment, he wanted to say something but… he had no words. In the end, he whispered just one. "Kyrie…"

He quickly got up, raised himself to his full height and approached his victim with measured steps.

"Now then, let's get started, shall we?" Sherlock said as he firmly grabbed the burglar and dragged him along.

"Oh, no need to look so afraid," he said deceptively. "You don't have to be afraid of falling, because you see, falling doesn't hurt at all." He hoisted up the American so he could look him squarely in the eyes. "The sudden stop however, now that might sting a little…"

And with those words Sherlock hurled the American at the window with such force, that the glass shattered violently, spreading thousands of tiny shards around him, falling through the air like stars shooting from the sky.

Sherlock leaned out of the window, right in time to see the American lend right on top of Mrs Hudson's bins. He smirked when he heard a grunt of pain tear from the man's throat. Then his smile dropped. It wasn't enough.

He turned around, saw Kyrie looking at him with hazy eyes. Seeing the damage done to her made a muscle twitch near his mouth and he got angry all over again.

"I don't think that was enough, do you?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. He then stalked off again. "Thought as much," he muttered as he bounded down the stairs.

"Oh, look," he said, taking in the results of his handiwork, "There is the fractured skull. And I do believe you have a broken rib or two… I just don't see any evidence of that punctured lung yet. Let's remedy that, shall we?"

Sherlock grabbed the American from the bins so he landed on the ground with a thud and a painful groan. He then dragged the American along for round two…

Sherlock was standing outside, his hands shoved deep into his pockets and he watched the ambulance drive off, sirens wailing. Lestrade was standing next to him. Bit of a perplexed look on his face. Then again, 'perplexed' seemed to be the natural state of the man's face anyway.

"And exactly how many times did he fall out of the window?" Lestraded asked him pointedly.

"It's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector," Sherlock quipped, "I lost count." He sent Lestrade a meaningful look. Lestrade just shook his head and walked away, leaving it at that.

Now that the high of adrenaline was leaving his body after he had sated his need for a bit of painful revenge, an empty feeling settled inside of his stomach. Sherlock slowly turned around and walked to the back door entrance, leading straight into Mrs Hudson's kitchen.

Mrs Hudson was still upset, but seemed to be in better sorts as John had kept her company and had tended to her cuts and bruises.

"She'll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight," John started immediately as Sherlock was still busy wiping his feet. "She could stay in Kyrie's room for the night. We need to look after her."

Sherlock tensed at the suggestion.

"No," Mrs Hudson didn't seem happy with the suggestion either.

"Of course not," Sherlock said, "She's fine." He dove into Mrs Hudson's fridge while John still wouldn't let it go. "No, she's not. Look at her! She's got to take some time away from Baker Street."

Sherlock found a plate of mince pies, grabbed one and closed the door of the refrigerator by giving it a shove with his foot.

"She can go and stay with her sister. Doctor's orders."

"Don't be absurd!" Sherlock scoffed at the suggestion and took a bite from the pastry.

"She's in shock, for God's sake! And all over some bloody stupid camera –phone. Where is it anyway?"

"Safest place I know," Sherlock replied, his mouth full, and wiped away a few pastry crumbs near the corner of his mouth. He turned to look at Mrs Hudson with a fond smile.

Mrs Hudson suddenly reached inside her vest and rummaged around and fished out the phone and handed it to Sherlock.

"You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot!" She chuckled and buried her face in her hand. "I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry. Ooh," she whimpered as she cradled her forehead.

"Thank you," Sherlock said in a quiet manner as he pocketed the phone in his coat. "Shame on you, John Watson!" he said sounding stern, though there was humour in his voice as well. He quickly walked over to Mrs Hudson.

"Shame on me?" John asked, his brows arched in confusion.

"Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street?" Sherlock said with a scoff and he wrapped his arm around Mrs Hudson, gently pulling her to him in a quick hug. "England would fall!"

Mrs Hudson chuckled and briefly clasped his hand on her shoulder. John smiled at them and seemed appeased.

Upstairs in their apartment, home, John poured himself a drink. Sherlock walked to the small table while taking off his scarf and Belstaff coat. The room seemed… so much emptier now.  
As if something was missing. Someone. He exhaled on a lingering breath.

"So, you are not going to the hospital and see Kyrie then?" John asked, taking note of the Belstaff coat resting on the back of the chair.

"Hardly any point in going there now," Sherlock replied.

"So, you're not going then?" John asked again.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock said softly. He hoped John wouldn't press the matter. How many months had it been? That time he had said something like… 'Why don't you go cry by their bedside? See what good it does them?' He still stood by that statement, mostly, but no longer entirely. Because, even though reason dictated that Kyrie would not benefit from him being there, he did feel a desire to be there. Not long of course, but, he wanted to see her, check on her, make sure she was… all right… comfortable. All so very silly. And useless. But… there it was. Sentiment.

"Mind if I tag along then? Tomorrow?" John asked. Sherlock remained silent for a while.

"Actually," he finally said. "I was thinking of going by myself. I won't be long."

"Oh," John said, "Err, all right. I can visit her later then. Sooo… Where is it then?"

"Where's what?" Sherlock asked, a bit distracted.

"The phone?"

"Ah… Where no one will look," he replied, picking up his violin.

"Whatever's on that phone is more than just pictures," John said as Sherlock adjusted one of the tuning pegs.

"Yes, it is," he agreed and he plucked the string to assess the tone.

"Whatever's on that phone is the reason why Kyrie is now in the hospital, with a severe concussion and a broken nose."

"I know," he agreed again, but softer.

"So, she's alive then," John asked him after a moment. "The woman, I mean. How are we feeling about that?"

At that exact same moment, the clock outside started tolling twelve. Sherlock looked outside for a bit.

"Happy New Year, John," Sherlock said.

"Do you think you'll be seeing her again?"

He turned around and pick up his bow, twiddled with it for a bit before he drew it across the strings. Soon the melody of 'Auld Lang Syne' echoed through the room, Sherlock's subtle cue that he would not be answering that question.

Long after they had retired for the night, long after all the lights in the apartment had been doused and the music had died, Sherlock was lying in bed. He was looking at a small item, dangling from his fingers on a delicate chain. A pendant. It turned around slowly, glistening in the moonlight that fell into his chamber through the window. It was a pear-shaped tanzanite, partially wrapped in a thin gold brim. The gold brim ended in a small curve around the chain at the top, while the rest of it gently hugged the tanzanite in a larger curve. Tiny diamonds were set in the gold, framing the gem, almost in a loving embrace.

Near the bed, a small jewellery box was carelessly tossed aside with the torn remnants of the gift paper scattered beside it.

As the pendant languidly swayed on the chain, Sherlock found himself haunted by his own words. " _The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all. That always suggests long-term hopes however forlorn…"_

If those were really his thoughts on Christmas presents… then what did this necklace represent? What did the music paper in the leather map gilded with his initials represent?

It didn't help that, now that he was studying the damned pendant, he noticed that the delicate gold setting with diamond accents, kind of resembled an S if you looked closely.

" _Caring is a disadvantage, Sherlock,"_ his brother's words echoed in his mind.

Sherlock sniffed in irritation and he flipped up the pendant to catch it with his fist. He got up from bed, opened one of his dresser's drawers and flung the necklace inside.

He was not serious about anyone and he certainly did not have long-term hopes. Now that he had proven to himself that the pendant meant nothing, he could finally get back to sleep.


	13. Fire to Ice

Chapter Eight.

In the end, Sherlock decided against visiting Kyrie in the hospital. She looked beaten up, she had a concussion and a broken nose. She would heal.

After an overnight stay, the conclusion there were no indications of cerebral haemorrhage, and after the doctor was satisfied with her reactions to stimuli, Kyrie was simply sent home.

John sent him a particularly murderous look when he helped Kyrie to the couch. Sherlock wordlessly sat in his comfy chair, one leg crossed over the other and his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

His conscious thought had drifted far away as he was wandering through his Mind Palace. He didn't like the additional threat to Kyrie. Gerulf, he was a problem his brother was working on. The phone though… Whatever was on it, people wanted it and were prepared to go to any lengths to get it.  
He saw but one solution. He had to crack the code and bring the phone's hidden secrets to light. It was the only way to eliminate the extra threat.

And so Sherlock set a gruelling pace for himself. He took on cases for his clients. He solved murders, baffling break-ins and mysterious vanishings. And during the moments in between he tried to solve the puzzle. He hardly ate and hardly slept, his mind too focused and too stimulated to allow him the luxury of such tranquil moments.

As Kyrie's features healed from the cuts and bruises, Sherlock's features became more pallid and gaunt, but his eyes burned bright with an intensity they had never shown before. Nothing John and Kyrie said or did could sway him from his path. He was ruder, colder and more insensitive than ever and if Sherlock ever saw the often worried looks that Kyrie and John sent each other, he didn't act or comment on it.

Three tries. He had three tries left to unlock the phone's secrets. Not only would he win and best Irene, but he would also neutralize the threat responsible for what had happened to Kyrie and Mrs Hudson.

One day he suddenly up and left the apartment without as much as an explanation for where he was going. By that time neither John nor Kyrie even bothered to ask what he was up to. For Sherlock, it was as plain as day...

At St. Bart's Sherlock was staring intently at the computer screen trying to find any abnormality in the picture. Molly had been hovering around him the entire time and finally was no longer able to contain her curiosity.

"Is that a phone?" she suddenly asked.

"It's a camera-phone," he replied without looking up.

"And you're x-raying it?"

"Yes, I am."

Molly shuffled a bit closer. "Whose phone is it?" she asked, trying not to sound too curious but failing miserably at it.

"A woman's," he remarked dryly.

"Your girlfriend's?"

Sherlock slowly turned his head to look at her. "You think she's my girlfriend because I'm x-raying her possessions?" he asked incredulously. Was his ring invisible or something?

Didn't a ring on the left ring finger symbolize a marriage? Even if she had overseen the small gold band, surely she would have known about his marital status through Lestrade?

"Well, we all do silly things," Molly said with a nervous chuckle as Sherlock started to raise his hand to show Molly she had made a wrong assumption. His hand stopped mid-air though as her words registered.

"Yes, they do, don't they? Very silly!" Sherlock remarked as a sudden thought occurred to him. He jumped up from the stool, opened the x-ray inspection system and grabbed the phone. He tossed it up, his mind feverishly locking onto a possible answer.

"She sent this to my address," Sherlock said, wondering if he'd finally figured it out… Figured her out. "And she loves to play games," he added while punching i B.

"She does?" Molly asked, her voice betraying the wild assumptions her mind was making as Sherlock pressed the OK button to enter the code. The screen immediately flashed angry red and showed the message 'I AM **** LOCKED, 2 attempts remaining. Sherlock flicked up the phone in annoyance before he tucked it away. He then stubbornly resumed to subjugate the stills of the phone to his unrestricted scrutiny and got up to leave in anger when he found answers he didn't like.

As he donned his coat, Sherlock suddenly heard Molly gasp. He arched his brow at her in silent question.

"You… you have… is that a ring? A… wedding…ring?" she stammered in a voice that carried several different emotions that Sherlock didn't feel the need to dissect.

"Yes, it is, Molly," he simply averred as he pulled up the collar of his coat. "Good day."

The moment Sherlock reached the top of the stairs, leading to apartment 221B, he knew several things. One, Kyrie and John were out. Two, someone else wasn't. There was a fragrance in the air. Full… spicy… Sherlock sniffed the air… balsamic… fruity. He sniffed again, tried to determine its source. The fragrance was oddly familiar. He could smell vanilla… a fading trace of mandarin, cinnamon… just a hint of raspberry and blackcurrant. Gone before you really had a chance to really register it.

Following his nose, Sherlock stepped deeper into his domain. He strode to the kitchen window, carefully pushed at the skylight which was partly open when it shouldn't be. He spun around, sniffed, inhaling deeply. Definitely not Kyrie.

He followed the scent, leading out of the kitchen in the direction of his bedroom. The door was ajar, again when it shouldn't be. Kyrie was quite anally retentive about keeping all the doors in the apartment closed. Which sometimes frustrated Sherlock to no end. He usually just breezed through a door without a second glance only to receive one of Kyrie's death glares as she would then take it upon herself to close anything that he would leave open.

As Sherlock approached his bedroom and carefully further opened the door, he heard John's footsteps bounding up the stairs.

"Hey Sherlock…" John called out.

"We have a client," Sherlock interrupted him.

"What, in your bedroom?" John sounded mildly amused as he sauntered over and took a peek around the door.

"Oh," he suddenly exclaimed, seeing the still form of Irene Adler slumbering in Sherlock's bed.

Kyrie was climbing the steps carrying a few grocery bags. Her lips pulled in a tight line of determination.

Sherlock had been in one of those moods where he had refused to touch a single bite of any balanced meal she put in front of him. Now she was going to make cookies and she was going to force feed them to him if he dared to refuse those as well.

It had been a rough couple of months for Kyrie. Sherlock's insane mood swing on Christmas Eve, the beating she'd gotten on New Year's Eve, Sherlock refusing to even pick her up from the hospital… her lips turned down in a scowl. She'd been so stupid to even have believed one word of Mycroft's bullshit. Sherlock and caring for her? He didn't care a fig for her! Oh, he could be all nice and sweet en charming when he wanted to be, but that was only when it suited him.

He had played the role of devoted husband so well, that even she had fallen for it. She'd simply been mesmerised that evening. Until the text. The party had suddenly been over and when Sherlock had finally returned…

Kyrie paused on the steps. He had hurt her that evening. Not the physical shove, but the amount of loathing she'd seen in his eyes. And yet… even though it was mostly one vague blur, she seemed to remember a softness and kindness in him when he'd saved them from the clutches of that vile American scum bag. She even seemed to remember her name, softly whispered near her ear, his breath tickling her skin. Maybe it had been just her imagination, something her heavily concussed brain had conjured up. But, after that evening Sherlock had suddenly started calling her Kyrie.

After that, Sherlock had positively withdrawn himself from both her and John and just delved himself in work and his puzzle. He was so obsessed with that bloody phone! Though sometimes John was allowed a little glimpse of what was going on in that head of his, he'd just shut her completely out. It was like those first two days of living in 221B all over again. And here she was… still at his back and call, ready to force feed him cookies because he refused to look after himself.

Kyrie closed her eyes for a moment. Leaning against the door. She yearned… oh how she yearned, for things to go back to what they had been before. Before the Christmas party would be good. She'd even settle for before that one kiss. Just… normal. His quips, his insults, his childish moods, his smiles… Okay, get a grip, she admonished herself. Breathe in, breathe out… and keep going.

Suddenly it dawned on her that she could hear the sound of different voices coming from the inside. Kyrie rested her hand against the wooden surface of the kitchen door and gently pushed it open. She carefully put the bags with groceries on the floor, because as per usual, the kitchen table was full.

"What can you do, Mr Holmes?" she heard a sultry female voice ask. Kyrie carefully put one foot in front of the other, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

"Go on, impress a girl."

Kyrie stepped from the kitchen into the living room and there he was, staring at that infernal phone, a woman leaning over his shoulder, her face night next to him. The first thing Kyrie noticed was, that woman was stunningly beautiful. A certain aura around her, a mixture of confidence and sexuality.  
A woman who was completely at ease with herself, no matter was state of dress… or undress. Irene Adler, no doubt.

Not John, not Irene, nor even Sherlock had noticed she was there.

The second thing Kyrie noticed, was that this Irene was leaning in with the obvious intent to kiss Sherlock on the cheek. The moment her lips made contact with his skin, Kyrie noticed a small necklace pendant fall out of Sherlock's dressing gown. Sherlock's dressing gown. His best one.

And suddenly Sherlock started talking at such a high speed that it rivalled her own ability to flawlessly pronounce every syllable of 'Oh bravo Figaro, bravo bravissimo' at a tongue twisting speed.

"There's a margin for error, but I'm pretty sure there's a 747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at 6:30 in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it's going to save the world, I'm not sure how that could be true, but give me a moment, I've only been on the case for eight seconds."

When he stopped talking for a moment, probably because both John and Irene were too busy being impressed by his deductions. Sherlock, busy being too much of an arrogant prick to even notice her standing there, rolled his eyes.

"Oh, come on, it's not code, these are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look! There's no letter I because it can be mistaken for a one. No letters past K, the width of the plane is the limit.

The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence, but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place. Families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need a letter K or rows past 55…"

Good God, didn't he need to come up for air at some point?

"…which is why there's always an upstairs. There's a row thirteen which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there's the style of the flight number, 007, that eliminates a few more. And assuming the British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent," Sherlock said as he raised himself from the kitchen chair.

"The only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week, is the 6:30 to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow airport," Sherlock concluded as he locked eyes with Irene.

Kyrie had to admit, she had no idea what the hell he was talking about, but she was very impressed. Apparently, so was Irene who looked at Sherlock as if she was ready to jump his bones, or to devour him.

"Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing," Sherlock said with an air of total superiority. "John's expressed that thought in every possible variant available to the English language."

Irene Adler didn't skip a beat. "I would have you right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice," she told her, her eyes flaring with passion and promise.

Kyrie was curious about what Sherlock's reaction would be to that. She had to give it to Irene, she had him dumbfounded for a second. "John, please can you check those flight schedules, see if I'm right?"

"Yeah, I'm on it, yeah," John mumbled in shock.

"I've never begged for mercy in my life," Sherlock said in his rich baritone voice that seemed to have suddenly dropped by an entire octave.

"Twice," Irene repeated herself.

And that was enough. Kyrie had seen enough and heard enough… enough to know that she had to safeguard her own heart, right now, this moment, this instant. Through tragedy, unexpectedly, she had hopelessly fallen in love. But he would never be hers. He would never reciprocate her feelings, would never feel the same way about her. And so Kyrie did the only thing she could do.

She locked her feelings away, buried them underneath tons of snow and ice. Something deep inside of her broke a little, but at least it was better than a devastated heart, which would have been the result had she continued on the path she'd been following. One breath in, one breath out.

"You want him? You can have him," she finally drawled. Her voice sounded weird in her ears.

Three sets of eyes suddenly seemed to notice her standing there. Well, it was about time. She'd been standing there nearly half of their courtship.

"Kyrie, you're back! Wait… What?" Sherlock sounded a bit surprised.

Kyrie could feel Irene's gaze take in her appearance head to toe.

Her eyes were bright, alive, sparkling… something devious lurking within their depths. Irene's fingers started to toy with the pendant on her necklace. The small gesture drew Sherlock's attention. He scowled seeing the necklace.

"You've been through my drawers!" he said, accusation evident in his voice.

"Yes," she cooed, her eyes never leaving Kyrie's. "I found your little gift." She suddenly turned her head to face Sherlock again. She smiled at him, but it was a mocking smile, as if she was daring him. When she got no further response, she lifted her eyes at Kyrie, her eyes sparkling with triumph.

Kyrie found that she no longer cared now she had safely locked her feelings away. She turned around to sit in Sherlock's chair. Her eyes briefly met his and she found him staring at her with a peculiar look in his eyes as if she had suddenly turned into a puzzle he couldn't figure out.

"So, what's up? I see you finally learned what Irene had hiding on her phone. Any good?" Kyrie asked and she felt a small amount of satisfaction when she saw Irene's look of triumph die in her eyes. That air of confidence, at least in Kyrie's eyes, seemed to suddenly diminish somewhat.

"Uh, yeah… Sherlock? You're right," John suddenly said, "Flight 007."

Sherlock got this look over him again. That look that said he was on the verge of finding something out. "What did you say?" he asked.

"You're right," John said again.

"No, no, after that, what did you say after that?"

"007, flight 007."

Sherlock stared into a far distance only he could see, whispering 007 over again. "007, 007, 007, 007… something." He turned around and this time he shoved Irene Adler out of the way.

"Something 007, 007. What?" Sherlock started pacing around, looking around with a slightly mad look in his eyes. As if he was trying to see something, remember something, visualise something.

"007, 007. What?" He started to sound like a sound fragment stuck on repeat. "What. Something. What?" His voice grew ever more agitated, angry with himself for not being able to grasp that one elusive thought. Suddenly he turned his head to face the kitchen, looking intently and Kyrie knew… he remembered.

Sherlock's feet seemed to carry him forward in a daze, lost in his memory.

Kyrie turned around. "John, I'm going out," she announced. "Good luck with James Bond." She turned around to Irene. "It was nice to meet you," she said and then she vanished through the door, not waiting for a reply.

She wandered through the streets for quite some time. This time however she wasn't afraid and she also wasn't cold. When she looked in the glass of a window pane, for a moment she thought she saw the reflection of Gerulf leering at her. She watched him, unmoved. Even stepped closer.

"How do you like me now, Gerulf?" she whispered and then she watched the image of his face dissipate.

Back in Baker Street, Sherlock aimlessly plucked the strings of his beloved violin. Though he outwardly maintained an air of aloofness, inside his mind was in turmoil. His emotions and thoughts were constantly at war with each other, pulling in every different direction.

" _Bond Air is go, that's decided."_

Her eyes had turned so cold. Like ice. _"You want him? You can have him."_

His fingers plucked at a string.

" _Check with the Coventry Lot."_

She was gone for hours now. Somehow, he had noticed her leaving because it had felt like… like she had taken something with her. Something intangible that he now noticed was missing. His fingers plucked at a string.

"Coventry," Sherlock suddenly said.

"I've never been."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open a bit in surprise. John was gone as well. Irene Adler was sitting in front of him, in John's chair.

"Is it nice?" she asked when he stopped talking.

"Where's John?" he asked.

"He went out a couple of hours ago."

"No, I was just talking to him," he said, still a bit in a daze. This was… strange. He could have sworn he had told John everything about the war that was going on inside of him. His desire to put an end to this once and for all and his desire to go out and find Kyrie. Find out why the violet had so abruptly disappeared from her eyes, leaving them cold and hard. He decided he did not like her eyes that way, so detached.

"He said you do that," she said with an amazed smile. "What's Coventry got to do with anything?" she then asked curiously.

Sherlock took a deep breath. How could eyes suddenly change in shade in such a profound way?

"It's a story," he said. Probably not true. In the Second World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they'd broken the German code, but they didn't want the Germans to know they'd broken the code so they let it happen anyway," he drummed up from the top of his head.

"Have you ever had anyone?" Irene suddenly asked, her eyes brimming with… something.

Sherlock furrowed his brows, not understanding what she was getting at. "I'm sorry?" he asked.

"And when I say 'had'," she said with a secretive smile, "I'm being indelicate."

"I don't understand."

"I'll be delicate then," she said while she rose from John's chair and knelt at his feet, placing her hand on his.

"That's not yours," he remarked, his eyes drawn to the tanzanite pendant.

"Oh? You mean you didn't get this for me as a Christmas gift? Not even after I sent you my gift?"

"It's not… yours," he said again.

"Take it off then, if you'd like."

Sherlock didn't reply.

"Let's have dinner" she asked in a sultry tone.

"Why?"

"You might be hungry."

"I'm not," he denied.

"Good," she said, her eyes locking with his. There was something… something about her eyes. Something familiar, something he'd seen before. Something he knew happened with eyes when… An idea sparked.

"Why would I want to have dinner," he said, his voice barely over a whisper, as he reached out his hand and furled his fingers around her wrist. He leaned in to her, looked into her eyes deeply, alert for any change in colour and pupil dilation. "If I wasn't hungry?" he asked, his face just inches from hers.

"Mr Holmes," she whispered, Sherlock could feel her pulse pick up a beat as her gaze dropped to his lips, "If it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?"

Her gaze shifted back up from his lips to his eyes, her eyes widening in the process… And suddenly he knew why it was so familiar. He remembered. Months ago. He had kissed Kyrie to keep Gerulf from the truth about their marriage. A kiss that had surprised both himself as her. A kiss that had brought him so much clarity and had left his body oddly waking as he tasted the sweetness of her mouth. And when they broke apart… and he looked into her eyes… they looked like this. Exactly like this. Her usually blue eyes had been strikingly dark and violet, pupils completely blown, and her lips… had been soft and trembling.

Irene's heartbeat, it was going through the roof. The pupils in her eyes… dilated. Her lips… quivering slightly. She was aroused. Kyrie had been aroused… Meaning… meaning that she had harboured some kind of feelings for him. That knowledge flared something deep inside him… something that he repressed quickly in a panic.

"Ooh-hoo? Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson's voice suddenly pierced through the silence.

"Too late," Irene whispered.

"That's not the end of the world," he said, "That's Mrs Hudson."

He let go of her hand and Irene quickly pulled back.

"Sherlock! This man was at the door, is the bell still not working?" Mrs Hudson asked with some random agent guy in tow. Or was it the same guy that had tried to force him to wear clothes before? He wasn't sure. At some points the agents all started to look alike.

"He shot it," she explained the agent, her voice full of indignation.

After a careful look, Sherlock decided it was definitely the same agent.

"Have you come to take me away? Again?" he asked mockingly.

"Yes, Mr Holmes," the agent said why pulling something from the inside of his pocket.

"Well, I decline," he said in a huff.

"I don't think you do," the agent said and he handed Sherlock some papers. Flight tickets. Sherlock snatched them out of his hands to have a closer look. Well, his name was on it…

So, Sherlock got up and followed the agent to the government car that was waiting for them outside.

"There's going to be a bomb on a passenger jet," Sherlock told the agent during their ride to their destination. The British and American governments know about it, but rather than expose their source of information, they're going to let it happen. The plane will blow up."

The agent in front of him kept a tight lip and said nothing.

"Coventry all over again," Sherlock scoffed. "The wheel turns, nothing is ever new."


	14. Winning and Losing

**A/N Last chapter of the episode Scandal in Belgravia. I hope you are enjoying the story so far. Let me know what you think!**

Chapter 8-2

They drove on in silence, until they reached their destination. The airport. A huge passenger jet was waiting for him on the asphalt. Its bright colours sticking out in the darkness, illuminated and accentuated by the bright lights.

As Sherlock approached the entrance to the jet, a surprising, well, not so surprising, figure was waiting for him.

"Well, you're looking all better," Sherlock said with a mocking voice, regarding the American agent he'd tossed out of the window a few months back with cold disdain. "How are you feeling?" he asked in a way that suggested he really couldn't care less.

"Like putting a bullet in your brain, sir," the agent drawled.

Sherlock scoffed at him, slightly amused and satisfied, then turned around to climb the steps.

"They'd pin a medal on me if I did, sir," the agent continued.

Sherlock turned around to briefly look at the agent. What an odd thing to say…

He then finally entered the jet and slowly made his way forward between the rows of seats. Each and every one of them was occupied and… something was off. It seemed like… He had to make sure. Sherlock turned on a light and saw with his own eyes the cold truth. The seats were occupied but not by the living. They were all dead.

"The Coventry conundrum," a familiar voice called out behind him. Sherlock whirled around to face his brother. "What do you think of my solution? The flight of the dead."

Sherlock looked around him and came to a conclusion. "Plane blows up mid-air, mission accomplished for the terrorists. Hundreds of casualties but nobody dies.

"Neat, don't you think?"

Sherlock curled his lips in a tight smile.

"You've been stumbling around the fringes of this one for ages. Or were you too bored to notice the pattern?" Mycroft said sounding a tad bit insulting.

Sherlock's eyes went wide with sudden realisation. All those months ago… Seemed like a lifetime… Kyrie's eyes were then still tinged with a soft violet hue. The way she'd mildly scolded him after he had told those two little girls what happened with dead people. Two little girls who had not been allowed to see their deceased grandparent. And the guy with the ashes… his aunt's ashes that weren't really his aunt's ashes. Not even human ashes.

"We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back. Though I believe one of our parents didn't make the flight." Ah, that one unsolved case… the body in the trunk.

"But that's the deceased for you," Mycroft drawled. "Late, in every sense of the word."

"How is the plane going to fly?" Sherlock asked, before answering his own question. "Oh, of course, unmanned aircraft. Hardly new." He couldn't resist the jab.

"It doesn't fly. It will never fly," Mycroft told, "This entire project has been cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb."

Sherlock furrowed his brows listening to Mycroft's explanation. Where was his brother going with this?

"We can't fool them now. We've lost everything." Mycroft paused, adding weight to the silence. "One fragment of one email and months and years of planning... finished," he said with a shrug of his shoulder.

Sherlock scoffed in understanding. "Your MOD man," he said.

"That's all it takes," Mycroft agreed, "One lonely, naive man… desperate to show off. And a woman clever enough to make him feel special."

Sherlock arched a brow in mock sympathy. "Hmm, you should screen your defence people more carefully," he suggested.

"I'm not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock!" Mycroft suddenly burst out, "I'm talking about you!" he said in disgust, slamming down the tip of his umbrella against the floor to punctuate his words.

Sherlock furrowed his brows, genuinely confused about what his brother was getting at.

"The damsel in distress," Mycroft scorned, "In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook," his voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption. Then give him a puzzle and watch him dance," he concluded, twirling his umbrella at Sherlock.

"Don't be absurd!" Sherlock said in disgust.

"Absurd? How quickly did you decipher that email for her? Was it the full minute? Or were you really eager to impress?"

"I think it was less than five seconds," a sultry voice said behind him. Sherlock whirled around and saw Irene Adler standing behind him.

"I drove you into her path," Mycroft said, his voice full of regret. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. I thought I saw the beginnings of an attachment to Kyrie. A fondness at least. I really believed that she would be able to keep you grounded. I guess I overestimated that bond between you. And I am sorry for that. I won't make that mistake again."

"That simpering half-wit?" Irene chuckled. "You really believed that slip of a girl could have ANY effect on your little brother? Look at him, only a real woman can stand beside him and not burn." She approached Sherlock, her lips curled into a seductive smile. "Mr Holmes, I think we need to talk."

"So do I," Sherlock agreed, "There are a number of aspects I'm still not clear on."

"Not you, Junior," Irene said as she brusquely pushed passed him. "You're done now." Her voice lost its sultry quality and gained a hard edge.

Sherlock turned around in mild shock when Irene walked up to his brother. And he realised she had abused The Game. She had tempted him to taint The Game with sentiment. Though his emotions had warred with one another, torn between longing and guilt, at least they had been honest and not a ploy. She had merely toyed with him. His nostrils flared with self-loathing.

"There's more, loads more," she teased, "On this phone I've got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world."

Sherlock briefly saw a look of horror flash in his brother's eyes and he was powerless to do anything.

"You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me. Unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother."

Mycroft, unable to look either her or his little brother in the eye, suggested they take the conversation elsewhere.

The drive back to Mycroft's office of business had been excruciatingly uncomfortable. Once there, Irene and Mycroft sat down at the table, each at a side. Irene started her gloating, Mycroft was still grasping at straws. Sherlock just sat in a semi comfortable chair, staring into the dancing flames of the fire in the hearth.

"We have people who can get into this," Mycroft said, jabbing at the phone, trying to resume his air of authority.

"I tested that theory for you," Irene said, her tone as well mocking as amused. "I let Sherlock Holmes try it for six months."

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes in embarrassment.

"Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you x-rayed my phone," she goaded him.

"There are four additional units wired inside the casing," he explained. His voice sounded quite lethargic, even to his own ears. "I suspect containing acid or a small explosive. Any attempt to open it will burn the hard drive."

"Explosive," she admitted, "It's more me." She was absolutely enjoying, revelling in every second of this while Sherlock hated every one of them.

"Some data is always recoverable," Mycroft remarked.

"Take that risk," she dared him.

"You have a pass code to open this," he said trying a different angle. "I deeply regret to say, we have people who can extract it from you."

"Sherlock?" Irene breathed out, her sigh edged with a little bit of annoyance.

"There will be two pass codes. One to open the phone, one to burn the drive," Sherlock explained unwillingly. "Even under duress, you can't know which one she's given and there would be no point in a second attempt."

"He's good, isn't he? I should have him on a leash. In fact, I might," she practically crooned.

Sherlock felt a muscle twitch near his jaw. Despite his outwardly bored attitude, he felt thoroughly humiliated.

"We destroy this, then," Mycroft decided. "No one has the information."

"Fine, good idea," Irene readily agreed, "Unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you burn."

"Are there?" Mycroft asked.

"Telling you would be playing fair," she replied, her voice taking on a childish tone. "I'm not playing any more," she then said, indicating that The Game was over. She had won. She reached inside her purse and pulled out an envelope.

"A list of my requests," she said and she slid the envelope over to Mycroft. When he wanted to take it, she pulled it back for a moment. "And some ideas about my protection once they're granted."

Then she finally allowed Mycroft to take the damned envelope. "I'd say it wouldn't blow much of a hole in the wealth of a nation, but then I'd be lying."

Mycroft's eyebrows threatened to leave his head, he raised them that high, reading her little list of demands.

"I imagine you'd like to sleep on it," suggested.

"Thank you, yes," he said. To Sherlock it was obvious he tried desperately to not sound utterly defeated. Which, essentially, he was.

"Too bad," she suddenly said in a way that suggested Mycroft had some immediate decisions to make. Mycroft actually looked taken aback and Sherlock scoffed. She was quite the dominatrix. Ugh, he was so tired. He brain felt addled, still somewhat in shock after realising he'd been beaten at The Game.

"Off you pop and talk to people," Irene said with glee.

Mycroft slumped back in his chair with a resigned sight. "You've been very... thorough," even Mycroft couldn't help but sound impressed. "I wish our lot were half as good as you."

"I can't take all the credit, I had a bit of help," Irene said. Then she suddenly turned her head in Sherlock's direction. "Jim Moriarty sends his love."

Sherlock raised his head and tensed at the word. Not Moriarty's name… the word love.

"Yes, he's been in touch," he vaguely heard his brother say, the gears of his mind suddenly shaking off the lethargy and spinning in overdrive. "Seems desperate for my attention. Which I'm sure can be arranged."

Love… Emotions… Affection… He thought back to Kyrie. Her eyes soft and laughing, light blue and violet, beaming up at him with happiness. Sentiment…

He thought back to the moment their lips met, when her lips succumbed to the pressure of his own and parted for him, when he delved his tongue inside her mouth, exploring her, tasting her, his mind expanding a thousand times over. To the moment they broke apart and she had looked up at him, eyes wide open in wonderment, vibrant and alive with that violet hue. Her lips quivering, her pupils dilated.

"I had all this stuff and never knew what to do with it," Irene gloated in the background. "Thank God for the consultant criminal." She walked over to the table, closer to where Mycroft was sitting, and sensually settled herself against the table.

Irene's pupils, like Kyrie's, had been enlarged. Irene, like Kyrie, had been aroused. He knew that for a fact, didn't he? Because he had checked her pulse. Because Irene had been the clue that had made him realise Kyrie used to at least have some kind of feelings for him.

And now, Kyrie was the clue that made him realise Irene was intensely attracted to him. Irene was clever and she knew, in a way, that he'd been attracted to her as well. To her mind, but attracted none the less. And she had used that knowledge, drawn from it. She had tainted The Game with emotions, with sentiment. With her heart…

"Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys. Do you know what he calls you? The Ice Man..." her voice dropped to a whisper, "And the Virgin," she said redirecting her gaze to Sherlock.

"Didn't even ask for anything, he just likes to cause trouble, now _that's_ my kind of man," Irene just couldn't keep herself from gloating.

Sherlock didn't respond, he closed his eyes, his mind still reeling with the possible implications of his conclusions. Cause he had reached a few.

"And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees," Mycroft said with a scathing voice.

Sherlock let out a small gasp as he finally understood the meaning, the significance, of one of his conclusions.

For a moment he was back in the living room. Kyrie was stumbling towards him, her face ashen and a look of complete horror on her face. A brief flash of red. He looked up and noticed Gerulf had perfectly manoeuvred him into a direct line of sight of the window. It would only take one perfect shot, executed from the open window of the opposite building. And then he understood why Kyrie had practically flung herself into his arms, to shield his heart with her own. And when she had looked up at him, her eyes had no longer been blue, but a soft blazing violet.

He suddenly knew with a cold realisation that he had lost something. Something he never even knew he'd had. Something, he realised, he very much wanted back. Violet.

In particular the violet that had left her eyes, which used to make them warm and vibrant and loving. He now understood that her eyes were a visible meter of the level of her affection. It shouldn't matter to him, but much like John's opinion, it did. The thought that somehow in her eyes he was now … less, he just couldn't abide it.

"Nicely played," Mycroft applauded her.

"No," Sherlock countered. "Sorry?" Irene said in obvious confusion.

"I said no," he stated more clearly, his voice gaining in strength now he knew he had her beaten. "Very, very close, but no," he veered from his seat. "You got carried away," he accused, "The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much."

"There's no such thing as too much," she disagreed.

"Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine. Craving the distraction of The Game, I sympathise entirely, but sentiment?" he said appalled. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. Sentiment has absolutely no place in The Game."

Mycroft furrowed his brows, keenly looking on at the scene that was enfolding in front of him.

"Sentiment?" she asked, "What are you talking about?"

"You," he averred.

"Dear God, look at the poor man," she said on a sigh and a chuckle. "You don't actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?"

Irene cruelly flung his own insecurities back in his face. Because deep down inside of him, that's exactly how he feared people only saw him. Though he was not emotionally the most adept, even he needed a bit of human affection like everyone else, a sense of belonging, of being accepted. It was the reason why John's friendship did matter to him. Because John accepted him for who he was and not just the person he presented to the world. So did Kyrie, she used to at least.

"No," Sherlock said while he stepped forward and, almost tenderly, slid his fingers over her wrist. He leaned in close, very close, his lips nearly touching her ear. "Because I took your pulse," he whispered. He pulled back and saw in her eyes that she remembered the exact moment he'd also wrapped his hand around her wrist, though for entirely different reasons than she'd expected that moment.

"Elevated," he whispered, driving home the point he was doing the exact same thing that moment. "Your pupils dilated…" he reached behind her and took her phone from the table and suddenly distanced himself from her.

"I imagine John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive." Proof of that was his own distress now he realised what the absence of the violet in Kyrie's eyes meant for him.

"When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait..." he said, walking away from her but she followed right behind him. "How true of you. The combination to your safe, your measurements… but this," he said while tossing up the phone and catching it again. He activated the phone, the LOCKED screen glaring at him. "This is far more intimate…" he said, punching in the first key.

"This is your heart and you should never let it rule your head, not in The Game. You could have chosen any number and walked out of here with everything you've worked for…" he punched in the second key.

"But you just couldn't resist it, could you?" he said with a bitter smile. "I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage," he punched in the third key. "Thank you for the final proof."

Irene clutched her hand around his, before he could punch in the fourth and final key. "Everything I said, it's not real," she tried to make him understand, her eyes tearing up. "I was just playing The Game."

"I know," he whispered while he punched in the fourth key. "And this… This is just losing."

He held up the phone for Irene to see, tears started rolling down her face as she was confronted by her weakness. The screen showed the message I AM SHER LOCKED.

"There you are, brother," Sherlock said softly, pressing the OK button to enter the code SHER, giving Mycroft immediate access to every little secret Irene had stored on that device. "I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight."

"I'm certain they will," Mycroft conceded.

"If you're feeling kind, lock her up. Let her go and I doubt she'll survive long without her _protection_ ," he said in disdain and started to walk to the door.

"Are you expecting me to beg?" Irene asked in shock, her eyes swimming with tears.

"Yes," Sherlock said, without even looking at her.

Irene then swallowed her pride. "Please," she begged in defeat. "You're right."

At those words Sherlock finally turned his head to look at her.

"I won't even last six months," she admitted on a sob.

"I'm sorry about dinner," he spat, "And you can keep the necklace. You made sure she'd never consider wearing it anyway." With those words he stalked out of his brother's office. Feeling that, even though he had bested Irene in the end, he had lost horribly anyway.


	15. It's just an Experiment I swear!

**A/N I'm publishing quite a few chapters at once, huh? And I have a lot more ready cough busy writing Empty Hearse cough. Still need to do read-throughs and do a few touch ups though. And continue writing of course! So, here it is... a bit of an aftermath for SiB and the start of HoB. Hope you enjoy! This chapter was edited 02/17/18**

Chapter Nine.

In the weeks that had followed, there'd been a certain strain between Kyrie and Sherlock. Both not quite acting like themselves. They no longer seemed to gravitate towards each other. As if the string that used to tie them together had snapped. They both seemed to be floundering without it and John, who watched his two friends struggle on, had no idea how he could help to fix it. And really… it needed to be fixed.

Sherlock seemed hell bent on giving an entirely different meaning to the term 'mood swings'. John was used to him not eating during cases. He was used to him withdrawing from this reality, his silence for days on end. He was used to the churlish tantrums and the lashing out at everything and everyone. But lately even cases didn't seem to appease his mind, not for long enough at least. And those tranquil periods in-between cases affected him in a way he had not seen before.

Now that the tie had snapped, John realised just how much of a soothing factor Kyrie had become, preventing Sherlock from completely derailing. His mind was always working, always racing and it needed to be occupied to keep it from shredding itself apart.

A gentle touch, a cup of tea and some cookies, a smile, a kiss to the cheek… That fragile string between them had helped curb him when he got excessively irritable, moody and offensive.

It had helped tone down his need to throw insults around just because they provoked some form of excitement. For all his talents and genius, Sherlock seemed very poorly equipped to emotionally handle his brain when it couldn't do what he claimed it was built for.

One evening John had enough. Sherlock was his best friend and though John would love nothing more than to help him, he also knew he wasn't what Sherlock needed. "He's self-destructing, Kyrie," he told her quietly. "Please, don't let him."

Finally, after what seemed like forever, John noticed that Kyrie's radical change began to soften a bit. Around him at least, she could still act pretty icy whenever Sherlock was around, but it seemed she was trying to find new common ground. It wasn't good, but it wasn't bad either. It was somewhere between completely in tune and completely out of tune.

There were definitely moments though, that John could see the old Kyrie was still around somewhere, lurking in the depths of those crystalline twin pools of displayed ice. It gave him a bit of hope that, given time, things would all work out in the end.

One dreary day, Kyrie had holed herself up in John's comfy chair. He wasn't around to complain anyway. She was reading a book, though not actually really reading the book.  
She was too conscious of the mood that had settled in the apartment once John had left.

Apparently, Irene Adler was alive and well, living the good life in America with a new identity. It had taken some time, but Kyrie had come to the conclusion that she hadn't really lost anything since she'd never had it in the first place. It made it easier to accept that maybe Irene was the one who did have it. Sherlock Holmes'… affection.

As she watched him staring out the window, she wondered… If Sherlock had not been trapped in this marriage, which only function basically was to keep her safe, would he have wanted to pursue Irene?

You didn't have to be a genius detective to deduce he had feelings for her.

When John was just here, with that file about Irene, Sherlock had demanded but one thing. John had refused at first of course, it being Government property now and all… But, in the end he had acquiesced and had handed Sherlock the phone. _Her_ phone. A phone that had completely been wiped clean but he would still have it none the less.

And now, there he was, staring outside without really seeing. The rain outside pelted against the windows when he looked down at the phone in his hands. He chuckled before a let out a soft laugh as he flipped up the phone and caught it again. "The woman," he muttered and opened the drawer of a small cabinet to place the phone inside.

Kyrie could feel a slight twang when she saw he hesitated, touched the phone one last time before he closed it. "THE woman," he then said with a last glance outside of the window. The reflection of his pensive gaze stared back at her, before he turned around.

Was she mistaken? Or did she really just hear a yearning in his voice? She looked at the ring on her hand. An heirloom. A ring she didn't deserve and shouldn't even be wearing. And Sherlock didn't deserve not being able to go after the one he actually wanted to be with. She saw then she had to cut him loose.

Even though she knew that her heart, underneath tons of snow, encased in walls of ice, would shatter in a million tiny pieces. And no glue or any substance in the world would be able piece it together again.

He said nothing when he joined her near the fireplace, taking his usual seat. He gently steepled his lean fingers underneath his chin as he gazed into the soft leaping flames, a contemplative look on his face.

"Sherlock?" Kyrie asked softly. He gave no sign to indicate he had even heard her. "Do you want to go after her?" Still no answer. "I know John said you won't be able to see her again," Kyrie tried again, "But I don't believe that. You could find her and…"

"And what?" he suddenly asked.

"I don't know," Kyrie puffed out a breath of air. "Whatever you want, I guess. Be with her?"

"Why would I want to be with her?" he asked immediately, just as he had asked John why he would want to see her, earlier.

"You know, Sherlock, you don't fool me with that attitude any more than you did John. You cared for her, we all know it. I'm just trying to say," Kyrie sighed in resignation. "If you want to go after her, you will have my full cooperation with the divorce. I won't stand in your way."

"How noble of you," Sherlock said, his tone devoid of any emotion. "And Gerulf?"

"Have you seen Gerulf again? I haven't. Mycroft is keeping close tabs on him. Gerulf is losing more of his power and influence each passing day –"

"Then why are we still married?"

Kyrie didn't offer a reply, she knew why.

"Because Mycroft believes he is still a threat. Glad to know you realise that."

Why did he have to be such an ass when she was trying to give him a way out? Sherlock turned his head slightly and arched his brow at her. Kyrie could feel her cheeks flush. "Sorry, didn't mean to say that out loud. Look, I don't care how much you want to deny it, but Irene Adler…" she gulped, before continuing, "She affected you in a way I have never seen before and neither has John and he's known you a lot longer than me. I don't want to be the shackle that keeps you –"

"You couldn't be a shackle if you tried, Kyrie," Sherlock interrupted her, "Because if I wanted a divorce I would get one and you couldn't stop me."

Kyrie didn't respond at first. She knew him well enough to know he meant it. If he wanted a divorce, he'd get a divorce. "Then promise me one thing, Sherlock," she said in a quiet tone. "The moment you want out, you let me know. Let's not wait for the moment we start to resent each other."

He was quiet at first, but then simply bowed his head in acceptance. "She isn't even in America," he stated with a quirk of his lips.

"What?"

"Irene Adler, she's not in America. Not sure where she actually is, but that hardly matters."

"But her file!"

"Fake," he said, popping the k. "I know for a fact she was captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi a few months ago. She was about to be beheaded."

"How – how would you even know that?" Kyrie gasped.

"I was there," he replied and lifted his eyes to meet hers, the flames in the fire enhanced the shock of gold around his pupils, giving his cerulean eyes an amber glow. The air was heavy with implication, but Kyrie wasn't fully sure about the exact nature of that implication.

She now did know two things though... First, Irene Adler was very much alive. Second, Sherlock was the one who had saved Irene, but other than that, he hadn't gone after her. And he had made it abundantly clear that he would have, if he'd wanted to. So, why didn't he want to? Sherlock continued to stare into the flames in silence while Kyrie kept wondering at his words.

"Kyrie?" he suddenly asked, breaking the silence. "Can you make your eyes go back to normal again?" His voice was so soft, almost hesitant, as if her answer was very important to him. But what was she to make of a random question like that?

"Well, excuse me," she muttered, "But to my knowledge there's absolutely nothing 'not' normal about my eyes."

"They are blue," he insisted.

Kyrie looked up from the book she wasn't reading and arched a brow at him. "Really, Sherlock? My eyes are blue? My eyes have always been blue!"

"They used to be violet too."

"Well, then I'm sure my eyes are still violet too."

"Only sometimes, and only when you're talking with John, or Mrs Hudson."

What the hell was this sudden fascination with the colour of her eyes? "I'm sorry then" she said a bit testy, "I can't magically make my eyes change colour. I can't just make them violet because you don't like blue. I'm sorry the colour of my eyes displeases you."

Sherlock was clearly not pleased with her response, judging the scowl on his face. Kyrie shrugged her shoulders. She was a bit too busy trying to discern her own feelings about stuff, and him, to worry much about this sudden mood of his.

"So, I'm just supposed to wait then?" he demanded. He was still not letting this go.

Kyrie rolled her eyes. "Sherlock, what do you even expect me to say to that? What do you want from me? Cause honestly, I don't have a clue!"

Suddenly Sherlock pushed himself out of the chair and lowered himself to his knees, right in front of her, their eyes level. Kyrie furrowed her brows but didn't say anything when he placed his hand on hers and let his fingers lightly travel over her skin, until they rested underneath her wrist.

Okay, he'd done this once before so she knew what he was doing, but she didn't understand why. Kyrie arched her brow at him in silent question as he gazed intently in her eyes, the amber even more prevalent than a moment ago.

"I prefer your eyes to be violet," he said on a whisper. "It's taking too long and I don't like waiting, not when I know a perfectly good way to make them violet again."

If Sherlock hadn't effectively trapped her in the chair, hadn't trapped her hand underneath his, she would have scratched her head. This was a whole new level of weird, even for him.

"Sherlock, I have no idea what's gotten into you," she started, her voice sounding careful. She felt more than a little trepidation when she noticed Sherlock moved his free hand behind her head. "But right now, you make about as much sense as a chocolate fire screen. I don't know-"

Her words got caught off, because Sherlock suddenly pulled her face towards him, silencing her by crashing his lips against hers. For a brief moment Kyrie was really tempted to just give in with a sigh and lean into his kiss, but his lips were too claiming, too exacting and they were taking things she wasn't ready to let go.

She forcefully pushed him away and slapped his cheek. Hard! "I'm not one of your experiments, Sherlock!" she said through clenched teeth.

She launched herself from the chair and stormed off, grabbing her coat and scarf as she fled the room. Kyrie thundered down the stairs and nearly crashed into John if he'd not grabbed her arms just in time.

"Kyrie!" he barked in shocked surprise, "What the hell?" One look at her and his expression suddenly darkened. "What's going on?"

"Ask him!" she shrieked, her emotions running all over the place, "He's lost it this time, John! I am not one of his experiments!" she breathed loudly.

"Oh boy, what did he do this time?"

"He tried to turn my eyes _violet_ , John! Complaining they were too bloody blue!"

"Oh," John said in an infuriatingly all-knowing, suddenly understanding way.

He looked at her carefully, looked at her eyes actually, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips. "Well, they are awfully violet now…"

"Shut up, John!"

A few months later, Kyrie started with a fright when the door suddenly slammed open. John was more used to these sudden wild entries and didn't bother to look up. Until he heard something knock against the floor. His reaction was to first look at the source of the sound, but when he did look up and took in Sherlock's appearance, even John looked as flabbergasted as Kyrie felt.

There he was, panting heavily, leaning on a bloody harpoon, his face, arms and clothes covered in blood. He positively looked as if he had just returned home from a killing spree.

In the year and a half that Kyrie had lived with the two men, she suddenly found out Sherlock was still able to surprise her. And even John apparently, whom she would have thought by now had seen it all.

"Well, that was tedious!" Sherlock complained.

"You went on the tube like that?" John asked, half in shock.

"None of the cabs would take me!" he grit out in utter indignation before he turned around and stalked off in the direction of his bedroom. Kyrie sincerely hoped that even he had the common sense to feel the urgency of a bath.

"So, new one, even for you?" Kyrie asked John who just buried his face in a newspaper.

"Yup," he replied, not even looking up.

"He's in one of his moods again, isn't he?" she asked carefully, warily eyeing the direction of his bedroom. She'd been out most of the morning so she had no idea what state he had been in.

"Oh, hell yes. I suppose you don't have any cookies stashed some place? Cause he will start looking for something else soon."

"Nope. And I wish him luck with that latter bit."

"Oh, come one! You in one of your moods as well?" John accused her.

Kyrie cast him a glare, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You haven't baked cookies in ages and don't think for a moment I don't remember just when you used to make sure to have a fresh batch around. And now you don't care if he runs off on a cigarette quest?"

"I haven't felt like baking cookies lately, thank you very much. However did you cope without me around to whip up some cookies at his every whim?"

"Oh, I coped just fine! But someone around here absolutely spoiled his already spoilt enough rotten arse with fresh cookies every bloody time a case was about to get solved. He now just point blank refuses to even touch bought biscuits. And though Mrs Hudson's savoury stews are unparalleled, she can't bake cookies you do. They don't have the same effect on him as yours do and I don't know if they are really that much better or if it's just because of the person who baked them. I for one can't taste a difference."

"Don't you dare go there, John," Kyrie warned him with a slight frosty edge to her voice, "Mycroft fooled me into going down that lane once and we both know how that turned out."

John closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. Over the past few months, his face had started showing a few more creases here and there and Kyrie did feel sorry for him. There were just some paths she didn't want to go down again.

"I know that Sherlock would decry every word of what I'm about to say-"

"Then don't say them…"

"But he misses you. He may not act like it, he may not even realise it, not fully anyway, but why else do you think he's been obsessing over the colour of your eyes? He's trying to -"

Kyrie bolted from Sherlock's chair as if she'd been stung. "I'm going to stop you right there, John" she said deceptively calm, "Sherlock Holmes doesn't miss people and he certainly doesn't miss me. How can he? I'm always here. Yet, when he's composing, I'm not the one he composes for. And the one time he actually bothers to buy someone a gift, that I know of at least… well, we both know who it was for, don't we?"

She breathed heavily. Sometimes remnants of her old feelings managed to surface. Even though she did try to keep her promise to Mycroft, to care for his brother and look after him, there were still times she just couldn't. "Once Mycroft is sure that Gerulf Schricken is no longer a threat to his parents, or me, Sherlock and I are done. He kept his end of the bargain and I kept mine."

John looked at her with one of his scrutinising gazes. "You don't really believe that and neither do I."

She was silent for a moment. "Maybe not, but it is what I keep telling myself. Maybe in time, I hope, I will also believe it. I'm trying, John," she lowered her voice to a broken whisper, "I'm trying to get past this, but you saying things like that doesn't help me. Things have changed and I can't change them back. Neither can you. So, please, do us all a favour, do Sherlock a favour and don't pretend that things are different or will be different. I'm trying and that is all I can give you for now."

At first John didn't respond at all. After a short while though, he finally nodded in agreement though his sad face told Kyrie he really wasn't happy about it.

Suddenly a bare footed Sherlock stalked back into the living room with angry paces, still carrying the bloody harpoon as if he were going to battle. His eyes were crackling with pale blue flashes and his lips were pulled in a taut line.

He started pacing to and from the door of the living room, his eyes restlessly darting across the room. His entire physique resembling a caged tiger slowly running mad by the confinement.

"Nothing?" he asked in disgust at some point.

"Military coup in Uganda," John said as he resumed his browsing of the newspaper. That didn't quite tickle Sherlock's fancy.

"Hm," John said in amusement after a while, "Another photo of you with the, err…" John pointed at a picture of Sherlock wearing the deerstalker. He was probably trying to lighten the mood but Sherlock's sulky mood quickly made him mention the cabinet reshuffle. That mention just seemed to set off Sherlock more.

"Nothing of importance?" Sherlock asked severely aggravated and he drove the harpoon against the wooden floor with a violent bang. "Oh, God!" he practically yelled before he a settled a nearly feverish gaze on John. "John," he said solemnly, "I need some. Get me some!"

"No," John said.

Sherlock's face twisted in anger. "Get me some!" he demanded.

"No!" John exclaimed jabbing his finger in the empty air. "Cold turkey we agreed, no matter what." John shot Kyrie an accusatory look as if Sherlock's current state was somehow her fault.

"No one's going to 'give you some', Sherlock," Kyrie stated calmly, "You've paid everyone off, waving an obscene amount of cash under everyone's noses. No one within a two-mile radius will sell you any, not even the chocolate ones."

"Stupid idea," Sherlock huffed, "Whose idea was that?"

John shot him a pointed look as he harrumphed.

Apparently Sherlock decided to no longer dwell on that particular subject as he started to yell for Mrs Hudson, right before he started throwing papers, files and clippings around, frantically searching underneath a small mountain on the small table that had been accumulating size over the past few days.

"Look, Sherlock, you are doing really well, don't give up now!"

"Oh yes, John, he's doing really well. Just look at him, the epitome of someone who is doing really well," Kyrie huffed.

"Kyrie, shut up! John, tell me where they are! Please, tell me."

Sherlock suddenly straightened himself and the brief look of agony that crossed his features made Kyrie feel a small stab of guilt. Or something else. Better stick to guilt because she really wasn't interested in something else at the moment.

"Please," he asked, or actually he begged.

"Can't help, sorry," John said, while actually sounding quite apologetic.

"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers," Sherlock managed to state with a straight face. John chuckled and even Kyrie smiled a bit.

"It was worth a try," Sherlock sighed and he scanned the room for ideas. His eyes fell on the fire place and was in such a hurry to get there, he managed to trip over Kyrie's feet. It didn't keep him from rummaging through the mess he'd managed to create there for even one moment.

Mrs Hudson decided to make her appearance with her signature 'Yoo-hoo' at that exact same moment. Sherlock didn't miss a beat and demanded to know what she'd done with his secret supply. Their sweet landlady looked at him, completely dumbfounded and Kyrie guessed that even she had not often seen Sherlock in this kind of state. If at all.

His mood resulted in Sherlock thoroughly offending the landlady, confronting her with her dalliance with Mr Chatterjee, her new dress and her wearing Kasbah Nights on a Monday morning. A comment that for Kyrie made no sense at all. She could happily wear Black Orchid any time of day. It wasn't as if she was working at a busy office where colleagues might be unhappy about her choice of perfume. Sherlock seemed to absolutely detest that fragrance, claiming it was an olfactory assault. Lately, Kyrie had started wearing Black Orchid a lot more.


	16. Bit mean, I know Not sorry, though

Chapter 9-2

The moment Sherlock confronted Mrs Hudson about Mr Chatterjee having a secret wife in Doncaster John warned him to stand down but the landlady left with a huff of indignation. At that point Kyrie did start to feel a bit sorry for him and got up to make them all some tea. She was a bit undecided about whether to give him something with a kick, as that was what he seemed to crave, or something soft and smoothing. She wasn't a camomile tea lover so she didn't have that, instead she settled for a green sencha with added jasmine blossoms and rose petals.

The moment she got up, Sherlock practically pounced on his now vacant chair and pulled up his legs against his chest.

"What the bloody hell was all that about?" John asked him while he violently shoved the newspaper away.

"You don't understand," Sherlock said quietly as he rocked his body back and forth in a self-comforting manner.

"Go after her and apologise," John ordered him.

"Apologise?" Sherlock asked and he momentarily closed his eyes when John hummed in conformation. "Oh, John, I envy you so much," Sherlock sighed and he did sound quite jealous right before he delivered a backhanded insult. "Your mind, it's so placid, straight-forward, barely used. Mine is like an engine, racing out of control. A rocket, tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launch pad."

Kyrie's hands stilled, her hand hovering over the pot, a full scoop of tea in the spoon she was holding. What Sherlock had said was true. That really was what his mind was like. Had she not quickly learned how he could torment himself when his mind wasn't occupied with solving a case? Had she not also quickly learned that for some reason, she seemed to have a soothing effect on him? That she was able to at least soften the sharp edges of the agony he was in while his mind was ready to tear itself apart.

The plain truth? He was a junkie. He was prone to fall prey to the lure of drugs but had somehow managed to substitute drugs with cases. He needed a fix, bad.

"I need a case!" he suddenly nearly screamed, voicing her exact thoughts.

"You've just solved one, by harpooning a dead pig apparently!" John cried out as he threw up his hands in exasperation.

"Oh, that was this morning!" Sherlock groaned in dismay as he flopped himself down in the chair, his arms, legs, fingers, toes all twitching with anxiety, nerves and anticipation. "When's the next one?" he asked almost desperately.

"Nothing on the website?" John suggested at which Sherlock launched himself from the chair to hand John his laptop.

"Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes," he started reciting with a mock voice as John read the message. "I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Please, please, please can you help?" He punctuated each 'please' with an odd body wiggle, as if he was trying to walk like a penguin. Not something she'd seen him do before.

"Bluebell?" John merely asked.

"A rabbit, John!" Sherlock bellowed, "Ah, but there's more," he continued and he flailed his arms about in a way that betrayed he was close to losing it. "Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned luminous, 'Like a fairy,' according to little Kirsty," Sherlock's altered his voice to sound like a little girl when saying 'Like a fairy' and Kyrie stared at the tea, willing it to infuse already.

"Then the next morning, Bluebell was gone. Hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry…" Sherlock suddenly paused, his hand stilling mid-air, "What am I saying, this is brilliant. Phone Lestrade," he said sounding all serious. "Tell him there's an escaped rabbit."

Thank the Lord, the tea was good to go! Kyrie quickly poured the hot infused liquid into two large mugs.

"Are you serious?" John asked while gratefully accepting the offered mug of tea. Kyrie gently tried to lead Sherlock back to his chair.

"It's this, or Cluedo," Sherlock threatened.

"Ah no," John point blank refused. "We are never playing that again."

"Why not?" Sherlock wanted to know as John stood up to put away his laptop.

"Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock. That's why."

"It was the only possible solution!" Sherlock defended himself.

"It's not in the rules."

"Well, then the rules are wrong!" he yelled and Kyrie thrust the mug into his hands, nearly spilling some tea over his hands. She almost wished she had spilled some hot tea over him as that would at least have distracted him.

"Hush," she ordered him. "Drink your tea and stop pouting. How about Mysterium?" Kyrie suggested.

"NO!" both John and Sherlock cried in unison. Kyrie just smiled thinking back to that rainy day where she had introduced the boys to the board game Mysterium, a kind of re-vamped Cluedo…

"Okay, so this game is kind of like Cluedo as in you have to find the murderer, the right crime scene and the weapon that was used. But, this is a coop game, meaning we either win together or we lose together."

"That's dull," Sherlock said, clearly unhappy about not being able to actually win.

"It's fun, also you are a less than gracious winner and a very sore loser! Now, here comes the fun part. I will play the ghost and you guys get to channel your inner mediums."

John and Sherlock gazed at her with mixed expressions of shock, mild amusement and rebellious scepticism.

"I refuse to pretend to be something as fraudulent as some nincompoop claiming to have paranormal abilities," Sherlock's voice was dripping with disdain.

"It's just a game. John, what do you think?"

"I don't know, it sounds very odd. I mean, mediums and ghosts?"

Kyrie could tell he was interested though, so she explained more of the game mechanics. "There are several suspects, several possible crime locations and several possible weapons. I, as the ghost, will give you 'vision cards' as clues. Starting with the possible suspects, you will have to decipher the meaning of the vision I give you. And I can't say a word."

"That sounds entirely too easy!" Sherlock complained, "You will actually give us visible clues about the suspect? This game will be over in minutes!" he huffed.

"You'd think that, wouldn't you? Care to put your theory to the test?" Kyrie said with a smile and John smirked. He had to have an inkling it couldn't possibly be as easy as that. And it wasn't. They lost horribly and that started a heated discussion.

"You were a terrible ghost!" Sherlock accused her. "You gave horrible clues! Clearly my suspect was the female explorer! It was the only logical choice. There was a big wheel in your vision card, the most prominent feature. Clearly someone who travels. The female explorer.

"The female explorer? Sherlock, there was an obvious duality in that vision card of black versus white. Did you really not see the evil looking Sweeny Todd lookalike? With the black and white hair?"

"That was all in the background! The most prominent feature of the card was the wheel! It would have suited the female explorer much better!"

"Oh, so you think a female explorer goes around by bicycle?"

"You told us that that the clues could pertain to shape, colour, mood or even suggestion. A wheel could easily refer to travelling, even if it was a bicycle wheel, which brings us back to the explorer!"

John in the meantime tried to keep from laughing his ass off and he decided to chip in as well. "Actually, I thought Sherlock's suspect was the nun."

"The nun?" Sherlock and Kyrie cried out in unison. "That just makes no sense at all, John," Kyrie said.

"I beg to differ. The black figure was on a dragon and they were surrounded by bats. The figure in white was on a horse and surrounded by angelic creatures. The religious reference was there!"

Sherlock then proclaimed that he would have been a much better ghost as he would have given actual useful clues. So, they decided to give the game one more try with Sherlock as the ghost and they lost even harder. It sparked an endless tirade in which Sherlock thoroughly insulted the mental capabilities of his companions, for not being able to discern his oh so obvious clues. It was the first and last time they played Mysterium.

Still, it had been so much fun to just bicker and fight with each other over the meaning of the clues. Kyrie would absolutely love to play it again!

When she snapped back to the present, she thought how quiet it was. She then noticed John staring at her with a fond smile on his face and she found that her right hand was threaded through Sherlock's curly locks, her fingers gently massaging the back of his scalp. Sherlock had gone completely quiet as he succumbed to an experience of ASMR.

"Well, that shut him up," she whispered at John who placed his finger against his lips, urging her to remain quiet. The peace was not meant to last however as suddenly the silence was broken by the ringing of their door bell.

Kyrie quickly pulled back her hand, slightly embarrassed she had not even noticed she'd given him a bit of a massage as she'd been thinking back of happier times and Sherlock immediately sat up straight.

"A single ring," John averred, able to discern by now the sound of a casual ring or the sound of a potential client ringing.

"Maximum pressure, just under half the second," Sherlock whispered in anticipation.

"Client!" the boys said in unison and Kyrie took that as a cue to leave them alone. She no longer felt comfortable being around them when they received clients. It would only result in amazement and more admiration for Sherlock's keen mind and that could possibly stir up carefully hidden other sentiments. It would be better to leave them at it.

"I'll get it," she said, needing to create some distance between herself and a certain someone.

When she opened the door, she found a young man standing in front of her. He was pleasant looking but had a nervous air about them. As most of Sherlock's clients tended to have. This one did look to be a bit more frazzled. His hands were shaking and he had neglected to give his mouth a proper wipe after breakfast. Huh, Sherlock was rubbing off on her.

"Hi," the young man greeted her, curiously glancing her up and down with an unmistakably look of interest. Even though she was wearing a rather plain but well-fitting pale blue wool dress, the guy looked at her as if she'd answered the door in nothing more than some revealing lingerie. Kyrie had to suppress the urge to roll her eyes at him and she gestured up with her hands.

"Just go on up, they are expecting you," she said with a curt nod before she grabbed her coat and scarf and headed outside. In the brisk cool air of the morning, she could hear the heated voice of Mrs Hudson coming from the café next door. So, the usually lovable landlady had found herself some claws and was now confronting Mr Chatterjee. This kind of eliminated her idea of having a quiet late breakfast. She was not going in there, Mrs Hudson looked and sounded way too fierce.

Kyrie fished her phone from her coat and decided to give the other Holmes boy a call. Her call was accepted almost immediately. It gave her a sneaking suspicion that Mycroft had either expected or been waiting for her to call.

"Good morning, sister dear." She smiled lightly hearing the familiar almost mocking drawl of her brother-in-law. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

"Just checking in," she said quietly.

"That bad, hmm?"

Why did it not surprise her that Mycroft knew exactly what state his younger brother was in?

"It was pretty gruelling," she confessed. "He should feel happier now though, the prospect of a new case just walked up."

"Details?"

"I have none. You know I don't really hang around any more when they get clients."

"We had an agreement, you know. I take it you do realise I also wish to be in the loop about the kind of cases my brother takes on."

"I know, My. But, you were the one who put him straight on the path of one Irene Adler. You know full well the impact that case had on your brother and how it changed things. This is me, dealing with things."

"I am sorry, Kyrie. More than you could possible know," Mycroft said on the other end of the line and she could hear the remorse seeping through in the tone of his voice.

"Any word about Gerulf?" Kyrie asked, changing the subject.

"That eager to leave my brother?"

"Not wishing to drag this out longer than is necessary," she admitted.

"Very well then. I'm afraid you are still stuck with him for quite some unforeseeable time. Gerulf refuses to go down without a struggle. He has gotten himself aligned with a new friend. A powerful one, even more powerful and dangerous than he is himself."

Kyrie could feel her heart sink in her shoes. She really had no idea how long she could keep doing this, without losing her sanity. "Is he still...?"

"Obsessed with you? Oh yes, very much so."

"But why, Mycroft? I've been married to Sherlock for over a year and a half. Clearly he has no suspicions the marriage is fake otherwise he'd have killed Sherlock a long time ago. And you said yourself, he's not interested in… you know… left overs."

"Well, I guess that makes you quite special, doesn't it? He's biding his time, Kyrie. He's plotting something. He might…" Mycroft went silent for a bit before he continued. "I think he was partially behind that whole unsavoury Irene Adler deal. I think he wants to disrupt your marriage. The reason he hasn't killed Sherlock already is because, and you were right on this, he still believes the marriage is real. He believes you are happy and in love. That's not how he wants you. He wants you as his, therefore, he wants you broken. He's trying to kill any feelings you may have for Sherlock and, from my point of view, he's succeeding at it pretty well."

Kyrie felt a bit woozy at the disclosure. "How? How could Gerulf have been part in Irene's plot?"

"I'm not yet clear on the specifics, but Irene did mention a name. Moriarty. He's… he's a consulting criminal of sorts. I think his web runs deeper and is much more intricate than we initially thought. The Irene Adler case, it was a two-pronged attack. Moriarty was catering two clients at once. Irene, and I think the other was Gerulf."

"Is Moriarty this new powerful friend of Gerulf's you spoke of?"

"No, he was a means to an end, a failed one at that. I'm sorry, but I can't say any more. It's for your own safety. Kyrie, you can't divorce Sherlock yet because that will just put you right back at the beginning. And, you have to act as if Sherlock is the love of your life. Because Gerulf is waiting for you two to fall out. When you do and Gerulf discovers, Sherlock is as good as dead."

"I don't know how much longer I can do this, My," Kyrie said with a small voice.

"I know, sister dear. I really thought that the trauma of that evening and Sherlock's less than winning personality would at least keep you safe from… sentiment. But, it appears that even though the tender feelings of the heart are unknown territory for him, my little brother is perfectly capable of surrounding himself with people who care. Deeply."

Kyrie worried her lip. She knew what she was about to say would leave her quite bare. "I don't mind him not being in touch with any romantic feelings towards me, My," she admitted quietly, "I do mind that apparently he can, to some degree, experience those feelings when it comes to… you know who I mean."

"I told him that all lives end and all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. I have the feeling however that you don't see it quite that way. If it's any consolation, Irene Adler may be who he wanted, but she's not who he needs. He would rather die than admit it, but he needs John. He needs you too. He will never, however, need Irene Adler."

Those words, though they offered very little in terms of romantic hope, did make her feel better. "Thank you, My," she said heartfelt, "And My? Sherlock is not the only one who has people that care deeply. You do too."

After a short moment of silence, Mycroft simply offered a 'Good day, sister dear' before he ended the call.

Kyrie put away her phone and shook her head when she noticed Mrs Hudson was still throwing a tantrum. She looked up in surprise when John suddenly emerged from the flat carrying a black suit case and a black bag. She arched a brow at him.

"Going somewhere?"

"Dartmoor. We have a case," John said before he raised his brows in surprise hearing Mrs Hudson having a go at Mr Chatterjee.

"You had no intention of taking me on a boat!" Mrs Hudson yelled and she threw something against the door of the shop with unbridled anger.

Sherlock stepped out of the flat at that moment, carrying a weathered brown leather suitcase and her Hermes valise. John at hailed a taxi and was already in the process of tucking his suitcase and bag inside. Sherlock handed him his suitcase and the valise as well, making sure to hold the door open for John.

"Oh," John remarked, "Looks like Mrs Hudson finally got to the wife in Doncaster."

"Hm," Sherlock replied in an amused tone while John climbed back inside taking the suitcase and valise with him, "Wait until she finds out about the one in Islamabad."

He then turned around to look at her. "Can you please quit your dawdling? I have a case to solve and I can't do that standing here."

"I'm coming with you?" Kyrie asked hesitantly.

"Of course you are, I'm not leaving you alone at Baker Street," he scoffed. Kyrie just nodded and moved towards the taxi. The moment she wanted to scoot inside, Sherlock closed the door on her.

"You've been talking with my brother," he stated. Kyrie sighed and looked up at him, not wanting to notice the soft amber burning inside those shockingly blue pools, but noticing it anyway.

"How can you possible know that?" she asked and cringed a bit hearing how tired she sounded. A satisfied smile tugged at his lips now he had a chance to show off a bit.

"I can see from the look on your face that you are not exactly thrilled by the prospect of travelling to Dartmoor with us. You'd rather stay behind in London. You are not arguing, however, not bringing up your usual argument that it's perfectly safe for you to stay alone because we haven't heard of Gerulf in a while. The fact you don't bring up that argument tells me that you know Gerulf still is very much a threat. I was not the one to impart you with that bit of information so that leaves my big brother. How was the old chap anyway?"

"Not as condescending as you," she bit back pointedly. "Done showing off?"

Sherlock fell quiet and stepped closer to her, studying her face. No, not her face… her eyes. Kyrie sighed and yanked open the door of the taxi to quickly climb inside. Sherlock wasted no time and slid right next to her, requesting the cabbie to drive them to Paddington Station. He immediately whipped out his phone and was soon engrossed in whatever it was he felt necessary to search for or type.

"This is a first, you coming with us," John said with a smile.

"Hopefully it will also be a last," Kyrie muttered quietly, earning her a gentle shove in the ribs. Sherlock's thumbs briefly stopped their rapid movements, but quickly resumed their task again.

"Don't be like that," John mouthed at her and Kyrie smiled apologetically. She didn't mean to put a damper on this for him.

"So, what's the case about?" she asked, trying to dispel the uncomfortable silence between the three of them.

"A big hound."

"A what?" she asked.

"Big hound."

"Sherlock?"

"20-year-old disappearance, a monstrous hound. I wouldn't miss this for…" he stopped his bored remark. "Never mind, the fun is ruined."

That was mean. His remark hit her with the same force as a vicious punch to the gut. When she looked up at him, she knew her eyes told him exactly how she felt about a backhanded remark like that. At least he had the decency to look away a bit ashamed.


	17. Gay Vibes

**A/N Sorry for those who are already faving and follwing this story.. Thank you so much, by the way! But in the first review I got, I was informed that my chapters were a bit long. I checked on my phone (not everyone reads on a pc or laptop) and holy crap! I'm sorry I put you through that! So, I cut several chapters in half and will keep chapters about 6 pages longs from now on, sometimes maybe 8 or 9 pages but not longer than that! I promise! I hope this update makes up a bit for the confusion!**

Chapter 10

Kyrie spent the rest of the drive lightly conversing with John while trying to ignore the pain that seeped through a small little crack in the ice around her heart. John, bless him, tried his best to lift her spirits after he'd sent Sherlock a murderous look. Sherlock paid them no further intention and occupied himself with his phone. The only break his thumbs would make, was when he patted the inside pocket of his coat with his hand.

At Paddington Station they took the train to Exeter. Once there, a rental car was already waiting for them. To Kyrie's immense surprise, it was Sherlock who stepped behind the wheel. She hadn't been entirely sure if he'd ever bothered to get his driver's licence.

The drive through the country was amazing. Kyrie simply awed at the raw beauty of the visage that too quickly sped by. At some point, Sherlock felt the need to get the lay of the land and he pulled over the car and hopped out. He climbed a large rock formation in the middle of nowhere and Kyrie couldn't help but admire the way he commanded attention, even when he was so high up above, the wind tousling his hair and flaring his coat around him. He definitely cut a striking figure.

John, in the meantime, folded open a map and tried to get his bearings. He pointed somewhere and said it was the direction of Baskerville. Pointing in a different direction he told her that's where Grimpen Village was, that left one other direction… Dewer's Hollow. Apparently it was the spot where so long ago a gigantic hound had attacked and killed their client's dad.

On top of the large rock formation, Sherlock looked at every direction John pointed out. "What's that?" he suddenly asked, causing John to look up from the map. John grabbed his small binoculars and peered through them.

"Hmm, a minefield?" he ventured, before handing them to Kyrie so she could have a look as well. She noticed a few white signs with a red trim and a black skull in the middle. "Technically, Baskerville's an army base, so I guess they've always been keen to keep people out," he explained.

"Clearly," Sherlock remarked dryly before he decided he'd had enough of getting the lay of the land and climbed back down.

They soon resumed their way and it didn't take long before they reached their destination, a quaint looking little town with old stone brick houses. Just a few streets in and Sherlock parked the car near 'The Cross Keys', the local inn and bar. When they climbed out of the car, they stumbled upon a small group of people who'd obviously just returned from a local tour. "Right," Kyrie could vaguely hear the tour guide say. "Three tours a day. Tell your friends, tell anyone. Don't be strangers. And remember, stay away from the moor at night, if you value your lives." Kyrie smiled at the zealous words of the tour guide. He had a cute accent.

As they walked to the entrance of the inn, Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat. When John shot him a pointed look, he just said it was cold, but ignored to actually button up the coat as the sun was casting its soft rays down on them.

Sherlock entered the inn and immediately took in every detail he could discern, leaving it up to John to fetch the keys to their rooms. Kyrie stood beside him while John patiently waited for the manager. "Here you go, double room for you boys and a single for the lady," the man said handing the keys over to John.

"Really?" John asked, taking the keys. "I'm arriving here with a beautiful woman and a snobby git and that's the conclusion you make? We're not… Why am I even bothering?" he muttered while handing the man some cash. "There you go," he continued, dropping the issue.

Kyrie couldn't help but snigger. She knew John couldn't stay annoyed at someone who was sending him one of the friendliest smiles she'd ever seen.

"Oh, ta," the manager said, "I'll just get your change."

"Ta," John muttered back before turning his head to look at Kyrie. "Is it me? Why do people always assume that he and I are… you know?"

"It's not you, John," Kyrie said with a chuckle, "It's Sherlock. I think he gives off some gay vibe or something."

That put the smile back on John's face again, right before it dropped from his face again when his attention was drawn to an invoice impaled on a paper spike, standing on the desk. Right before the manager returned with the change, John ripped the piece of paper from the spike.

"I couldn't help noticing," he began out of the blue, "on the map of the moor, a skull and crossbones?"

"Oh that," the manager said a bit dismissively while messing around behind the bar counter. Kyrie turned around and saw that Sherlock was still wandering about the bar, probably sticking his nose in business where it didn't belong.

"Pirates?" John tried again with a light chuckle.

"Er, no. The Great Grimpen Minefield, they call it," the manager said.

"Oh right," as if John completely understood what that meant.

"It's not what you think. It's the Baskerville testing site," the manager explained, his local accent quite thick, "It's been going for 80-odd years. I'm not sure anyone really knows what's there anymore."

Sherlock pretended to be examining a dining table nearby, but Kyrie could tell he was listening in.

"Explosives?" John asked curiously.

"Oh, not just explosives," the manager said with a light chuckle, "Break into that place and if you're lucky, you just get blown up, so they say. In case you're planning a nice wee stroll. "

Sherlock wandered away and disappeared underneath a small stone archway inside.

"Good to know," Kyrie said with a humoured smile.

"Aye. No, it buggers up tourism a bit, so thank God for the demon hound!" the manager laughed, "Did you see that show? The documentary?" He asked while walking around the bar and picking up a few empty glasses from a table nearby.

"Quite recently, yeah," John said.

"Sorry, can't say I have. I heard about it though."

Sherlock had complained about the dull exposé quite a bit. Too many empty and overblown assumptions to cater to a thrill-seeking, gullible crowd.

"God bless Henry Knight and his monster from hell," the manager said, standing still in front of them, the empty glasses still in his hand.

"Ever seen it? The hound?" John asked and Kyrie noticed it drew Sherlock's attention back to the conversation. This time he looked on, his focus on them this time unveiled.

"Me? No, no," the manager shook his head, "Fletcher has," he continued, pointing at the zealous tour guide they'd seen earlier that evening. "He runs the walks. The monster walks for the tourists, you know. He's seen it."

"That's handy, for trade," John remarked.

"I'm just saying we've been rushed off our feet, Billy," the manager suddenly said, turning around to face a short stout guy, apparently the kitchen's chef, who'd just appeared behind the bar.

"Yeah, lots of monster hunters," Billy agreed in a pleasant tone as Kyrie noticed Sherlock heading outside, going after Fletcher the tour guide.

"It don't take much these days," Billy went on, "one mention on Twitter and whoomph! We're out of WKD." The guys didn't miss a beat reminding the manager to put an order in for the drink.

"What, with the monster and the ruddy prison, I don't know how we sleep nights! Do you, Gary?" Billy asked as the manager walked behind him.

"Like a baby," the manager, Gary, said while affectionately placing a hand on Billy's shoulder. Ah, Kyrie thought amused. That explained a few things.

"That's not true!" Billy disagreed, sounding amused, "He's a snorer." Gary tried to shush him in a good natured way. "Is yours a snorer?" Billy asked John and Kyrie couldn't suppress a grin. Time to find out what Sherlock was up to. John could fend for himself for a bit.

"Got any crisps?" John asked right before he cast her a less than pleased look. Kyrie grinned at him and blew him a kiss right before she stepped outside.

Kyrie looked around for a moment and it didn't take long to find him seated at one of the wooden tables, conversing with Fletcher the tour guide. Sherlock did kind of stick out in the crowd. He always did, no matter where they went.

The moment Kyrie approached the table however, Fletcher stood up, seemingly annoyed, and Kyrie wondered what Sherlock had said or done this time.

"Bet's off, Kyrie. Sorry," Sherlock said the moment she was near enough to take the seat opposite him.

"What?" she asked as she flopped down.

"Bet?" Fletcher was suddenly interested again and in less of a hurry to leave.

"My plan needs darkness," Sherlock rambled on, "I reckon we've got another half an hour of light."

"Wait, wait, what bet?" Fletcher interrupted, wanting to be in the loop. Oh good, Fletcher just gave Sherlock the perfect opportunity to clue her in on what the hell he was doing.

Sherlock looked up in feigned mild surprise, "Oh, I bet my wife here 50 quid that you couldn't prove you'd seen the hound."

The explanation was so ludicrous that Kyrie had to bite her lip hard to keep from laughing, she could actually feel tears prickling her eyes. "Yeah, the guys in the pub said you could," she quickly said.

Fletcher looked between the two and raised his brows at them. "You bet your wife? For money? Not what I would have gone for, mate," he scoffed. Kyrie tried to draw no attention when she placed her hand in front of her mouth to keep herself from laughing out loud. She could almost see those gears turning and grinding to try and form a conclusion as to why Fletcher would find it odd a husband would instigate a bet with his wife… for money. Apparently, they came up empty judging the mildly clueless look on his face.

"Trust me," she finally explained with a bright smile, "My husband has absolutely no need to bet for anything _but_ money. I on the other hand, have a mild fragrance addiction that he finds absolutely ludicrous and simply refuses to fund any other way."

Fletcher settled his gaze on Sherlock, giving him a once over with a knowing smile. "Lucky! Well, you're going to lose your money to your pretty wife, mate," Fletcher said, sounding a bit smug.

"Yeah?" Sherlock said, sounding for all the world absolutely confident, though Kyrie could see he was still trying to get a handle on the meaning of what had just been said.

"Yeah, I've seen it," Fletcher claimed, "Only about a month ago…"

That moment John appeared, coke and crisps in hand, scooting next to Kyrie on the bench. Fletcher all but ignored him as he continued his tale. "Up at the Hollow. It was foggy, mind, couldn't make much out…" Fletcher took out his phone and started browsing through his picture gallery.

"I see," Sherlock said, "No witnesses, I suppose." He managed to sound very dismissively, as if there was nothing Fletcher could say or do to convince him he actually had seen the hound.

"No, but…"

"Never are."

"No, wait… There," Fletcher finally said in triumph, nearly shoving his phone in Sherlock's face, showing a picture made in the woods with something of a black blur on it, that was probably supposed to be the hellish hound.

Sherlock snorted in disdain. "Is that it?" He pretty much just laughed in the man's face. "It's not exactly proof, is it? Sorry, Kyrie, I win. I guess your acquirement of… what was it again?"

"Velvet Orchid," she said with a grin and smiled seeing Sherlock cringe a little.

"Please, God, no… anyway, it will have to wait. Preferably indefinitely."

"Wait, wait, that's not all. People don't like going up there, you know… To the Hollow." Fletcher tried to defend himself and sounded like he'd seen one too many conspiracy movies on YouTube. When he was sure he had their attention again, he continued. "Gives them a bad sort of feeling."

"Oooh!" Sherlock nearly whispered, "Is it haunted? Is that supposed to convince me?" He ended on a huff.

"Nah, don't be stupid! Nothing like that. But I reckon there is something out there. Something from Baskerville… escaped."

"A clone? A super-dog?" Sherlock said to mock him.

"Maybe. God knows what they've been spraying on us all these years, or putting it in the water. I wouldn't trust them as far as I could spit."

"Is that really the best you've got?"

Oh, that look on Fletcher's face. Something was going down. Fletcher licked his lips and turned his attention to his backpack, his lips curved slightly in a knowing smile. "I had a mate once who worked for the MOD," Fletcher lowered his voice and looked around, making sure no one else was listening in. Maybe two, too many conspiracy movies. Or ten.

"One weekend we were meant to go fishing, but he never showed up. Well, not till late. When he did, he was white as a sheet," Fletcher stopped for a moment, trying to build the tension, let his words sink in. "I can see him now. 'I've seen things today, Fletcher,' he said, 'that I never want to see again. Terrible things.' He'd been sent to some secret army place…"

Okay, this guy should stay away from YouTube… period.

"Porton Down, maybe. Maybe Baskerville, or somewhere else. In the labs there, the really secret labs," Fletcher whispered, "he said he'd seen terrible things. 'Rats as big as dogs,' he said," Fletcher reached inside his backpack and rummaged around. "And dogs, dogs the size of horses." With those words he revealed a plaster cast of a huge footprint. Sherlock gazed at it. It couldn't be real of course and Kyrie noticed he was looking for any signs it was fake. It was really well done though.

"Um, we did agree 50, right _darling_?"

Fletcher looked on with a smug look on his face when Sherlock pulled out his wallet and testily took out a few banknotes and handed them over to her. John looked on with an amused smile. Sherlock wordlessly got up and stalked towards the car. Kyrie followed him. As he'd said earlier, just a short time of sunlight left. Time to get their things.

When she reached him, his weathered brown suitcase was already next to him, he just took out her valise before he closed the door. "Here," she said, holding out her hand with the money, "That was just for show."

He barely glanced at it while he picked up his suitcase. "Keep it," he muttered while making his way back to find their room. Kyrie rolled her eyes and made a move to stuff the money in the pocket of his coat. Sherlock agilely stepped away, quite an impressive feat as he was carrying both his suitcase and her valise. "Hey!" he lightly admonished her.

"It's your money!" she countered.

"It's yours too," he remarked dryly.

Kyrie stopped in her tracks, forcing Sherlock to stop as well and turn around to look at her.

"No, it's not!"

Sherlock warily closed his eyes and sighed. "Kyrie, do you really always have to disagree with anything I say?"

"Not always," she bristled, "Just… most of the time."

Sherlock smiled a bit at that. "Just don't use it to fund your purchase of Velvet Orchid."

Kyrie scoffed at him, "I already have Velvet Orchid, but he doesn't know that."

"No, you don't!"

"Yes, Sherlock I do. And you actually like that one. Once the top notes have settled that is and I'm always very careful when applying it."

"I'm pretty sure I've never smelled it in on you."

"Yes you have, you're just biased because you don't like its big sister, Black Orchid."

"It's too bold," he complained, "It doesn't suit you."

Inside the pub Gary showed them the way up to their rooms. Kyrie went up first as John had given her the key to their room earlier. She opened the door and allowed Sherlock to enter so he could put down the suitcases.

Kyrie stepped inside and looked around. It was small and cosy. Her eyes fell on the double bed and she bit her lip. Maybe a bit too cosy. She heard Sherlock clear his throat behind her. Ah, he'd caught her staring at their little predicament. "Yes, um, sorry about that. But, I couldn't consciously book a twin room. Not with Gerulf…"

"No, of course," Kyrie waved his explanation away. "It's no problem, I just hadn't really thought about it earlier and…"

"Yes, right. Um, you can take the bed. I'm perfectly able to make myself comfortable on the floor," Sherlock offered.

Kyrie rolled her eyes. "On what mattress and under what blankets? You're not sleeping on the floor, Sherlock."

"But it doesn't matter to me, I-"

"Sherlock," Kyrie turned around, feeling a smile tug at the corners of her lips, "Do you really always have to disagree with anything I say?"

He looked at her, his eyes a bit greener, as they were every time when he found a situation to be humorous. "Not always. Just… most of the time," he quipped.

When he slyly patted the inside breast pocket of his coat, Kyrie squinted her eyes at him. She'd seen him do that once or twice more today. He turned around and opened one of the cherry wooden closet doors. "Are you certain you are comfortable with me sharing this bed with you?" he asked casually.

"Sherlock, we're not teenagers. We are two adults. We are, more or less, married and we really shouldn't make a fuss over something as insignificant as this. I'm sure you are perfectly able to keep your hands to yourself and so can I," she remarked dryly.

The room fell silent for a moment as Sherlock simply stared at the closet, not saying a bloody word. Suddenly he turned around and walked back to stand right in front of her. When she looked up at him, she noticed the green in his eyes had subdued, the blue a bit more vibrant but still completely dominated by the soft burning amber. She had to admit to herself that, although she had denied it, some eyes definitely had the ability to change colour.

"I didn't mean what I said, earlier," he said, his voice quiet and sounding all solemn. At first Kyrie had no idea what he was talking about and she racked her brain trying to figure out what he could mean.

She barely noticed his hands slipping behind her neck, so when he lightly pulled her closer, he startled her a bit. She was a bit apprehensive of what he might do next, but he surprised her by pressing a light kiss to her forehead.

"You didn't ruin the fun and I'm sorry for suggesting that you did," he stated. He then pulled back his hands and stepped back. When he did, Kyrie could feel something cold resting against her skin and she noticed an unfamiliar weight. Kyrie looked down, puzzled, but only caught a glimpse of something glittering. She gingerly brought up her hand and could feel a delicate necklace around her neck.

"What's this?" she asked quietly and she couldn't help but sound a bit suspicious.

"Your Christmas present," he said in a casual manner.

"You do realise that was months ago?" Kyrie asked as she walked over to the mirror in the closet, curious to see her… gift. She admired the pendant necklace, a halo covered with sparkling little diamonds, surrounding a flawless and stunning centrepiece diamond.

"Yes," he said and then paused for a bit. "I, err, initially got you something else. But, something happened to it…"

Kyrie looked up, her eyes locking with his as she looked at him in the mirror. Was he truly referring to the necklace she'd seen on Irene? The one that had fallen out of Sherlock's dressing gown Irene had been wearing when she'd leaned in to kiss him?

His next words confirmed her suspicion. "I knew you would never consider wearing, you know, the other one. So, I got you this one instead." His voice sounded as if he were talking about a pair of socks, but for Kyrie his words meant all the difference in the world.

She turned around to look at him and she saw the shocks of gold and green disappear from his eyes. The blue was a bit paler, less vibrant, more formal. She recognised a need in his eyes, a soft pleading, for her to not turn this moment into something very emotional. Feeling the slight burning sensation of tears pricking in her eyes, Kyrie quickly blinked to suppress them. She smiled at the tall man, the clever detective, the person who had snatched her heart away without even knowing, and she walked up to him.

No big display of emotions, she sternly told herself, but she did feel the need to be close to him. Hoping he would not be affronted by her action, Kyrie slid her arms underneath his open coat and pulled herself in for a hug. She deliberately rested her hands against his shoulders, on top of the fabric of his jacket, afraid that the warmth of her touch through the thin fabric of his shirt would immediately cause him to back away. So far, he didn't object but he wasn't returning the gesture either.

"Thank you," she said simply, "I love it. Now, if you keep standing there with your arms like a pair of limp noodles, you'll make this look odd. Can you please, put them somewhere around me? Anywhere is good, just not my rump please."

To her wonderment he did as she asked him when he lightly encircled his arms around her. With her head pressed against him, she could feel more than she could hear, something between a groan and a laugh rumble low in his chest.

After a while he pulled back and looked into her eyes. Apparently he was pleased with what he saw.

"Hello again," he said with a smile, making her chuckle. "Hi," she replied in return.

"What's this fragrance you are wearing now?" he asked suddenly while he stepped back and pulled his arms away. She grinned at him. "That, Sherlock, would be Velvet Orchid. I told you you'd smelled it on me before!"

"Really?" he asked sounding quite astounded. "Can I…?"

"Of course," she offered easily and turned her head so he could lean in again and take in the scent. He sniffed a few times, quite audibly and Kyrie bit her lip to keep from giggling at the sound.

"I've written a little blog on the identification of perfumes," he muttered, his eyes closed so he could categorise the accords and notes of the fragrance.

"I know," she said, "It was quite good.

"Thank you. When did you last apply this?"

"This morning, right before you decided to crash into the living room looking like you had committed a bloody homicide. Very bloody."

He chuckled a bit at the memory, clearly feeling much more at ease now his mind was silently working in the background, mulling over thoughts and ideas about the case. "I detect… vanilla, labdanum and… Suede?"

"I have no idea, I love my scents but have no idea what's actually in them. Can you still detect any traces of the heart note or is the base all that's left now?"

"Hmm… faint traces of floral ingredients… rose, jasmine and I take it the soft, sweet undertone I can't clearly recognise is the signature orchid," he said while straightening himself up again. "Very well, I rescind my earlier statement. You are absolutely allowed to use any of your funds to repurchase this perfume." He sounded positively magnanimous while making that statement.

"Also, I would like to be present when you apply this again and be allowed the occasional whiff throughout the day. The same goes for other perfumes as well, this could really help me improve and complete that blog."

"Absolutely," Kyrie said with a smile and immediately repressed a yawn. "I know it's still early evening, but I am beat. I think I'll go to sleep. Um, are you going to join John downstairs? Or are you turning in as well? Something else perhaps? Reading?"

She started babbling and Sherlock threw her an amused look. "I will join John downstairs for a bit. There's some things I'd like to run by him." He immediately walked to the door of the small bedroom but turned around to face her before he left.

"I'm going out with John tomorrow and where we are going… Let's just say it would be inconvenient for you to be there as well. I would appreciate it if you were to, err… stick around this place. Or make sure you are with a suitable guide if you want to head out. Is that good? Bit not good?"

"It's good, Sherlock," Kyrie said with a fond smile, "Say 'hi' to John for me, tell him 'good night' and if I'm asleep by the time you get back… good night."

He rapped his knuckles in a quick drum against the door before sent her a small smile. "Same. And Kyrie? I don't give off any gay vibes. I don't give off any vibes at all, for that matter."


	18. Spooning, Texting, Trying to look Cool

Chapter 11

Sherlock, light sleeper as he'd always been, awoke the next morning at the crack of dawn. He'd managed to get a few hours of sleep in even though the situation had been rather… awkward.

The evening had been pleasant enough. John had been there to keep his mind from getting too annoyed by the many insipid customers surrounding them.

He had tried to prolong the evening for as long as he could, not looking forward to the awkward moment of him having to share a bed. With a woman. A woman who incidentally also was his wife.

In the end, he had decided to treat this as any other evening. He'd do his evening routine, get ready for bed, and then he would just ignore the presence of another human body in very close proximity to him.

He found Kyrie fast asleep, her hair braided together in a single braid which he could appreciate.

If she hadn't done that the sheer amount of those golden manes would have probably suffocated him during the night.

He paid her little more attention while getting ready to go to sleep. He took off his coat, as per usual. He shed his clothes to put on a pair of comfy PJ's, as per usual. He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and tend to other bodily needs, as per usual… so far so good.

And then, the moment was there. He padded over to the bed, Kyrie already buried deep beneath the covers, and he stopped. He actually contemplated for a moment to just flop down on top of the covers, but that was just silly. So, he pulled the covers away but accidentally a bit too far, as he unintentionally revealed Kyrie's slumbering form. She started to shiver the moment she lost the warmth of the covers and she frowned lightly in her sleep, but she didn't wake up.

She was wearing a very comfortable looking nightshirt. Very practical. Not designed in any way to gain a man's attention. But, a pair of long, slender well-shaped legs stuck out from underneath the shirt. That moment, Sherlock discovered that his own body was a deceitful traitor.

He had always prided himself that a woman's whiles had no effect on him. When he saw a woman, even if she was pleasing to look at, all he saw was a brain. Usually it was a quite lacklustre one compared to his own, all the rest was just transportation and other bodily functions.

In short, women had no appeal to him. He had seen countless of naked female bodies. Granted, those bodies were quite dead as he only ever saw naked female bodies in the morgue or sometimes at a crime scene. He had also seen countless pictures of women in different states of dress, fully clothed, half clothed, conservatively clothed, provocatively clothed. In many different poses. And he'd never been effected.

Even many years ago, at uni, when he'd tried to… be a bit more normal. He had never been able to reach the point of intimacy with a girl where he actually wanted to be… intimate.

More recently even, a certain _dominatrix_ had tried to throw him off by confronting him stark naked. Had her nude appearance even remotely aroused him? The answer was no. Other than a brief scientific look at her body parts and a correct deduction of her exact measurements, not even a single cell in his body had responded to seeing her naked.

There had been no response at all to seeing her naked breasts, to seeing her naked body that he knew was exceptionally well proportioned... Not even his brief glance at her groomed sex had elicited any kind of response in his nether regions.

So why was this different then? Why did his body betray him in such a humiliating way, just by being confronted with a pair of nice looking legs? Legs of a real woman, slumbering in the same bed he was to sleep in and quite alive.

His eyes remained fixed on those legs. For the life of him, he couldn't determine why seeing Irene Adler fully naked had left him absolutely indifferent. While seeing Kyrie slumber in this bed with just her legs for visual stimulation, had him standing here, acutely aware of his very evident, almost painfully hard erection.

Oh to hell with all this. This. Exactly this, is what he always meant with the uselessness of emotions and sentiment. All they did was complicate things that should be dead easy. Like sleeping. He was going to get in bed and he was going to sleep and that would be all.

Sherlock quickly got in bed and drew the covers up again. He was lying deathly still, on his back, staring at the ceiling. He sighed deeply. He really wasn't looking forward to being aware of his full hard-on for an undetermined amount of time, even contemplated to take the matter in his own 'hands'. That however, would be too much of an admission he felt attracted to her.

Taking care of a spontaneous erection was one thing. Taking care of an erection because of visual stimulation where he'd never had an erection because of visual stimulation before... He breathed out deeply. No, he would not subject to that.

Convincing himself that all was perfectly fine, Sherlock folded his hands together over his stomach and he closed his eyes.

When he woke up, he was curled on his side, his limbs almost completely enveloping other warm limbs that were definitely not his own. His eyes flew wide open, but otherwise he remained utterly still.

He in no way wanted to wake up the person he was holding so close to himself. He carefully removed one arm that had been curled around a warm, very feminine waist. He then even more carefully removed one leg that was shoved up between a pair of other legs.

Then he – still very carefully – lifted the head of a woman beside him. No, not just a woman, this was not _some_ woman. This was Kyrie. And she was still asleep. Good. He quickly freed his other arm and now he was able to quickly roll away from her, start the day and forget this ever happened.

SSS

Kyrie stared at her empty breakfast plate. She felt pretty listless and there was no one around to talk to. When she'd finally woken up, Sherlock and John had already left doing… whatever they were doing.

Kyrie had taken a nice long shower, and maybe had spent a bit more time with her appearance than usual. She was trying to kill the time with no John or Sherlock around. In the end she'd gotten bored with make-up and ventured downstairs to have breakfast.

And here she was. Now… what else could she do? Bother My? Hmm… she'd just talked to him the day before. Not much she had to say to him, except maybe blow him away with the fact that Sherlock had actually given her a gift!

But if she did that she would not have the pleasure to see him spluttering. Oh, no… no, no. She got it all wrong, he would definitely curve his lips in one of his superior smiles and tell her… "I told you so!" Nope, she would not give him that pleasure. It would only tempt her to read more into the entire situation, maybe sprout some new shoots of hope.

Suddenly she perked up. She knew exactly who to call to make her feel less… bored. Oh wow… Sherlock really was rubbing off on her! Kyrie quickly got up and took out her phone. She decided to walk down to the skirt of town, take in some of the scenery while she talked and also keeping her promise to Sherlock to stay close and not wander off.

"Hello?" she heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line.

"Mable? Hi! It's so good to hear your voice!"

"Kyrie? Is that you dear? Oh, I shouldn't be so nice to you! You've been shamelessly out of touch with us! And what is this 'Mable' nonsense? You call me 'Mummy', just like the boys do. Now, tell me… how are you? Really?"

Kyrie smiled when she heard Mable yell at her husband that their prodigal daughter-in-law deemed them worthy enough for a call.

"I'm okay. I'm sure Mycroft told you that Christmas and New Year's was kind of a dud, so, hopefully this year will be better."

There was a bit of silence before Mable replied. "So, you plan on still being married to my son then, when Christmas comes again?"

Kyrie was very glad that Mable was not around to see her blush furiously. That was one devious woman. Now she knew where the Holmes boys got that particular character trait from.

"According to Mycroft, it will be necessary," Kyrie deflected the question that Mable was really asking her. "Gerulf still seems to be a threat."

"That horrible man. Though to be perfectly honest, I don't think I would mind if Gerulf would remain a threat for the rest of your life, not too much of a threat though, just enough so I get to keep you as my daughter. "

Kyrie felt tears pricking in her eyes and quickly swiped at them to keep the tears at bay. She chuckled and sniffed at the same time. "I don't think I would mind that either, Mummy," she said.

"Oh, really?"

Kyrie bit her lip to keep from giggling when she heard how utterly interested Mable suddenly sounded.

"I knew you would be able to find the patience to put up with my son's many flaws. My son… the brilliant detective, who can be an infuriatingly arrogant prick. You see past it all, don't you?"

That moment Kyrie started to regret the phone call, just a little bit. Of course she should have seen this coming. Mable was hoping that, no matter how the marriage had started, it would result in the real thing. And Kyrie didn't have the heart to crush that hope.

"He can be quite a handful, Mummy," she decided to say, again sidestepping the real question.

"Of course he can be, he's Sherlock," Mable huffed, "He's been a handful his entire life, from the moment he came into the world, screaming his little lungs out, seemingly offended at the humility of being vulnerable."

That made Kyrie laugh. "That sounds a lot like him, yes."

"I have no doubt he will be a handful for years to come. I only hope that you will be there as well to keep him in check. He needs someone around to set him straight now and again."

"There's always Mycroft," Kyrie said.

"Oh please, don't let Mycroft fool you, he will always try and make you think he's the superior one. Smarter? Yes. But Sherlock has always been more mature. I love both my sons, Kyrie, I love them equally, but I'm glad you're married to my youngest and not my eldest."

"I think Sherlock may disagree with you on that one."

"Of course, he will disagree with anything if he can. Also, he has no idea what's good for him."

Mable was silent for a bit and Kyrie sensed her mother-in-law was about to impart her with some wisdom about her son, gained through years of experience.

"Kyrie, I could not love you more if I had borne you myself. So let me tell you something about my son. Sherlock believes that love is dangerous and because he believes that, he's created a disposition that makes love unattainable for him. It does not mean he does not want it, no matter what he thinks about that subject."

Suddenly Kyrie heard a message coming in, through whatever Mable was saying next. "Sorry, Mummy? Can you repeat that last bit? I just got a text and I missed a bit you said."

"Oh, of course. I was saying that he is very protective of his intelligence. You must have noticed that he puts everything on hold for it. His own health is less important. Everything in his life is less important. Because… he believes that his intelligence is his only good quality. The only thing that makes him worthwhile. He thinks he is alone in more ways than just one and detaches himself from the rest of society. Don't let this fool you. No man is an island, not even Sherlock Holmes."

"Has he… always been like this?" Kyrie asked curiously.

"No, he was actually a very happy little boy. Full of life, love, with a thirst for adventure. Sadly, that is no longer him and I doubt he can ever return to that. He can however, learn that it's okay to be him, all of him, and still be valued. Maybe even loved."

Kyrie rolled her eyes when she received another text. She quickly glanced at her phone to see her brother-in-law was the one who had sent her a few messages.

"Thank you, for telling me all this. It's… so nice to get a bit of context. But, your other son is pestering me and you know how he can get when he's ignored for too long."

Mable started laughing. "My two sons… Past their thirties, one even in his early forties, and they still behave like five-year-olds."

"Gotta love them," Kyrie said with a smile.

"And that's what you do, don't you?" Mable said, "Love my boys, I mean. Don't worry, child. Your secret is safe with me."

Kyrie could feel she's was blushing again and quickly said good bye. Her mother-in-law was sometimes a bit too spot on with her own little observations. She quickly checked the messages Mycroft had sent her.

\- What is my brother doing? M

\- What's going on? M

Kyrie groaned. What was Sherlock up to this time?

\- I'm not with them, he said it would be inconvenient if I came along K

\- Are you done talking with Mummy?

\- I'm not even going to ask how you know, but yes

\- Daddy told me. Hang on

Immediately Mycroft's personalised ring tone of 'Ronde du veau d'or' went off.

"Do I even want to know?" Kyrie asked.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," Mycroft sounded a bit flustered. "Tell me everything you know."

"That would not be much. We are in Dartmoor –"

"So, I've gathered, Sherlock just broke in to the military facility of Baskerville using my security pass," he groused.

"He what now? Ugh, never mind. Um… the prospect of a new case actually became a case. Henry Knight, I believe. He claims his dad was attacked 20-odd years ago, and killed, by a monstrous hound. Sherlock is here to investigate."

"A hound you say?"

"Yes, that's what Sherlock and John called it."

"Odd, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"The fact they called it a hound, not a dog."

"I guess, I haven't really given it much thought."

"No, of course you wouldn't have," Mycroft said with his superior little tone, "Please tell my brother I expect that little card back. And try to keep him in check a bit."

Kyrie snorted. "As if I could, My!"

"From what I've heard, he takes more from you than you let on, sister dear."

"You've heard wrong," she said testily, "Bye Mycroft!" She ended the call abruptly and started to walk back to the village.

By the time the small inn and pub came back in view, she received another text. She cursed her brother-in-law under her breath, wondering what he wanted now, when she discovered Sherlock was the one who had sent her the text.

\- Where are you? You are not near the pub. S

\- Almost there, keep your knickers on K

\- Don't be impertinent, we had a deal

\- Kept my end of the deal, I was near 3 you too

\- I'm ignoring that

Kyrie sniggered.

\- You just did the exact opposite of 'ignoring that'

\- Did not

\- Did too

\- Not

\- Too

Kyrie's boots crushed over the gravel. She walked up to the pub slash inn and found Sherlock leisurely leaning against the side of the car, his phone in his hand. He looked up, hearing her approach and she smiled seeing the teasing glint in his eyes which were lively and dominantly green this time.

"Had fun annoying your big brother?" she asked with a grin. Suddenly John's had peaked around the other side of the car.

"Thank God you're back," he smirked, "This lump was absolutely impossible when he noticed you were gone and no one knew where you were off to."

"For Pete's sake, can't a girl take a stroll through town?" Kyrie said.

"As always, John loves to exaggerate," Sherlock said dryly. "But with Gerulf still being a threat, you shouldn't wander off by yourself without telling anyone."

"Sorry, next time I will hand you a written request. Better?"

"Only if you hand it in 24 hours in advance."

"Get it in the car, you love birds," John said, "Our client is expecting us."

Kyrie knew better than to address that remark. It would only raise Sherlock's ire.

With a huff Sherlock turned op his coat collar and wrapped his Belstaff closer around him.

John snorted. "Oh please, can we not do this, this time?"

Sherlock looked at John utterly bewildered. "Do what?"

"You being all mysterious with your… cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool," John scoffed a bit while walking around to the passenger side of the car.

"I don't do that!" Sherlock said indignantly while climbing behind the wheel. Kyrie loved this kind of banter between her boys, feeling oh so very grateful that by some little miracle, they were back at the beginning. She smiled as she scooted inside in the back seat.

"Yeah, you do," John couldn't keep himself from saying.

"But you have to admit, John," Kyrie said, "It really does make him look cool." And she fondly, but carefully, ruffled his curls with her fingers. Sherlock pulled his head away. Kyrie couldn't tell if it was because he felt annoyed or embarrassed, she smiled anyway.

Sherlock started the motor, put the car in gear and slowly drove the car out of the village. 

"So, what have you guys been up to?" Kyrie asked.

"Sherlock put us on a rabbit chase," John said dryly.

"I thought we were after a hound?" she asked confused.

"Nope, apparently we're after a rabbit. Kirsty's missing luminous rabbit."

"From the e-mail?"

"The very one."

"Kirsty Stapleton," Sherlock explained, "Whose mother specialises in genetic manipulation."

"How did you know?" Kyrie asked.

"We just met her," John said, "So, _she_ made her daughter's rabbit glow in the dark?"

"Probably a fluorescent gene," Sherlock said.

"You mean like… sea sparkle?" Kyrie asked, "They exhibit bioluminescence when they are disturbed, don't they?"

"Something like that," Sherlock agreed, "Remove and splice the gene into the specimen. Simple enough, these days."

"Wow, glowing fish is one thing, but glowing rabbits?" Kyrie said, finding it hard to believe a rabbit could actually glow in the dark.

"So?" John asked.

"So, we know that Dr Stapleton performs secret genetic experiments on animals. The question is, has she been working on something deadlier than a rabbit?"

"Sherlock, you do realise that pretty much any other animal on this planet is deadlier than a rabbit?"

John sniggered at her comment. The look that crossed Sherlock's face was very comical.

When they reached their destination, Kyrie's mouth dropped open seeing the mansion that rose up in front of them.

"Look at that," she said almost reverently while Sherlock parked the car, "Henry's humble abode."

"About as humble as Sherlock 'I'm not the Commonwealth' his ego." John remarked as they all exited the car. Kyrie giggled at the comment but Sherlock was less amused.

"You do realise I'm right here and can actually hear what you're saying?" he said while he lead them towards the front door after passing through something that kind of looked like the remnants of a neglected hothouse.

He rang the doorbell and it didn't take long before Henry opened the door and greeted them. His eyes lingered on Kyrie in a bit of surprise before he invited them in. Sherlock immediately marched into the house as though he owned it, John and Kyrie following him with a bit more appreciation for their surroundings.

Either Sherlock just didn't care or he was secretly rich enough himself to just not be impressed. Kyrie figured it was a bit of a mix. Despite the fact he claimed London was too expensive to live in on one's own, he loved his fine clothes and daily taxi rides a bit too much to not be well off in some degree.

"Are you, um, rich?" John dared to ask at some point.

"Yeah," Henry admitted matter-of-factly, not making a big deal or show of it. Point for Henry. She did not like the admiring looks he had cast at her earlier, but she could definitely appreciate his down to Earth attitude.

Sherlock seemed a bit annoyed at John's remark. It was hard to tell if he was annoyed at John's open admiration for the riches or because he didn't like John being less in awe by himself. Knowing Sherlock's ego, it was definitely the latter.

Henry showed them to his kitchen and prepared them a cup of coffee. Kyrie politely declined, John asked for a bit of milk and Sherlock dropped two sugars in his mug of coffee.

Henry then told them that he'd had a bit of a break through, during a session with his therapist. "There's a couple of words, it's what I keep seeing," he said with a deep sigh. "Liberty..."

"Liberty?" John asked while he took out a notebook.

Henry nodded. "Liberty. And… In," he said in a way that betrayed he felt a bit embarrassed he didn't have more to tell.

"It's just that," he said before he suddenly picked up the milk carton. "Have you finished?" he asked John, who just hummed at which Henry put the milk away. Seemingly just to keep himself occupied. He was quite endearing, Kyrie decided.

"Mean anything to you?" John asked Sherlock.

"Liberty in death, isn't that the expression?" Sherlock replied softly, "The only true freedom."

"Lovely thought on such a beautiful morning," Kyrie muttered under her breath.

When Henry was done rummaging through his cup boards, he turned around with a bit of a shy smile. "What now then?" he asked.

"Sherlock's… got a plan?" John said just as Sherlock took a sip of his coffee. He swallowed quickly.

"Hmm, yes."

"Right," Henry expectantly looked at Sherlock.

"We take you back onto the moor," he began.

"Okay," Henry nodded.

"And see if anything attacks you."

John nodded before he realised what Sherlock just said. "What?" he asked in surprise.

"That should bring things to a head."

"At night?" Henry gulped and then frowned a bit. "You want me to go there at night?"

Sherlock hummed.

"That's your plan?" John raised his brows considerably. Henry just gaped at Sherlock with open mouth and John chuckled in disbelief. "Brilliant!" he snorted.

"Actually, it kind of is, John," Kyrie interjected. "Do you know of a better way to find out where the hound lives? Because other than the moor, we have no clue."

"That's not a plan, Kyrie."

"It is, you just don't like the plan."

"Using someone as bait to see if something comes biting? No, Kyrie, that really is not a plan."

"I'm glad at least my wife seems to understand," Sherlock remarked, "If there is a monster out there, John, there's only one thing to do… Find out where it lives."

Kyrie found it remarkable that Sherlock more and more often seemed to refer to her as his wife and not seem somehow uncomfortable with it. A year ago he only did it because he just couldn't remember her name, but that was no longer an issue. It felt… nice.

Sherlock turned to face Henry again, still staring at Sherlock with a shocked look on his face. Sherlock just sent him one of his very fake smiles while taking another sip of his coffee.

"Um, it is quite a long hike though," Henry said, measuring Kyrie up with his eyes. "Is she coming with?"

"No," John exclaimed the same time Sherlock said, "Yes."

"Don't let my fashionable boots fool you," Kyrie warned, "They fit well, are comfortably and give plenty of support. They can handle a long hike. Maybe not mountain trekking but I don't believe that is what we will be doing."

Her tone told them the matter was settled and Henry just turned around in a bit of a daze, just to return with a couple of flash lights. "For when it gets dark," he said a bit lamely, but Kyrie thought he was adorable anyway.


	19. Pushing Buttons, through the Buttonhole

**A/N First things first. I noticed a link to a website wasn't working. Since I want to credit the author who made the transcripts I started using around the chapter when John got drugged in the lab, here it is again: search for arianedevere sherlock transcript, you should find it. FF is not allowing me to put a link in here. Now, on to a big great thank you for those who faved, followed and/or reviewed the story.**

 **As you will see, I stopped numbering the chapters in the story itself. Because I had to go back and split the much too long first chapters, things got a bit screwed up. Sorry for that! Rest assured, the chapters are online in the right order.**

 **Guest: Thank you so much for your review! I totally get what you mean. I love well written OC's, much more than canon characters. What I don't like, especially in the Sherlock universe, is reading OC's that are pretty much just female versions of Sherlock with no real identity of their own. I hope you will enjoy the rest of the story as well!**

 **Katt96 and judygrasham: Wow, your reviews totally made me blush! I'm really happy that you like the story. I can't hope for better praise than someone saying they think my OC blends well with the BBC story line and that I'm succeeding in keeping the canon characters intact. It is my hope and wish to be able to create a believable romantic story, without creating the sense that the OC was just forced in. I hope you will enjoy the rest of my story as well!**

 **Now, on with the story!**

They spent the rest of the day establishing a route, talking through the plan and over all preparing themselves. The moment the sun started to paint the sky pink, they all wordlessly put on their coats and armed themselves with the flash lights. Henry took the lead, followed closely by Sherlock, Kyrie and John.

Since Henry's house was not situated in the actual village itself but beyond the outskirts of the village, they decided to hike the entire distance to the moor.

They silently marched through the rough range, littered with rock formations, and went up and down as the landscape seemed to keep shifting beneath their feet. It was definitely a long hike and Kyrie was mighty grateful she'd not just been boasting about the quality of her boots.

The looks on their faces became progressively grimmer as they approached the woods where they would eventually find Dewer's Hollow. Henry, obviously an outdoors-y type, kept going with his fast pace, Sherlock easily keeping up with him. Kyrie saw that John got distracted by a rustling sound in some bushes nearby so she walked back a bit.

"What is it?" she asked softly.

"Um, not sure. Thought I heard something," he muttered, shining his flash light around, trying to make out something in the dark. Suddenly they heard a pig squealing shrilly. John walked towards the sound and Kyrie followed him, grabbing his arm when a sudden bird squaw startled her.

"Oh, you are so brave," John whispered, grinning at her.

"Shut up, John," Kyrie hissed. John just chuckled a bit and looked around with the aid of his flash light. The chuckle died in his throat when he suddenly noticed something. Silently he pointed in the direction that had caught his attention and then Kyrie saw it too. A light flashing in the distance.

"Sherlock!" John half whispered half yelled, but quickly saw that neither he nor Henry were anywhere to be seen. They had just forged ahead.

Kyrie shivered a bit in the brisk evening air and watched her breath turn into tiny clouds as John pulled out his notebook. Kyrie was really happy she was wearing her awesome coat, the one Sherlock had given her. She really didn't want to know how cold it could be out here when not wearing decent protection.

"You know Morse code?" Kyrie asked when she saw John taking notes.

"Of course," he remarked, sounding a bit offended, "Army doctor, remember?"

"Right, sorry," she muttered. "And…?"

"U… M… Q… R… A…" John said, reading out the letters.

"U, M, Q, R, A? Does that mean anything to you?"

"Not really, no. Umqra?"

"Eh..." she replied, not sure about 'Umqra'.

"Right, makes no sense either. Let's find Sherlock."

John led the way in the direction of where they would find Dewer's Hollow. Calling out for Sherlock every now and again. The further they walked into the woods, the darker it became. Kyrie was glad she was not out here by herself.

It didn't help that a dense, white fog hung over the forest floor and a chilly wind managed to bite despite the warm coat. The moonlight hit the wispy eerie tendrils, giving them an unearthly feel.  
In the distance, Kyrie noticed faint flashes of light. They trudged on through the dirt, mud and squelchy forest floor, its tenacious grip plucking at their heels, until a sudden metallic drumming caught their attention.

John placed a finger against his lips, urging Kyrie to be silent as he walked in the direction of that weird noise.

When they finally stumbled upon a rusty old metal barrel, they suddenly noticed for the first time it had started raining a bit. Rain drops fell down from the tree branches hanging over the barrel and harshly drummed against the metal, their echo's rippling through the night.

They both chuckled nervously. "Not really a hound from hell, is it?" Kyrie said. Suddenly they heard a screech and Kyrie saw how a vague dark blur quickly rushed past them. "Holy shit!" she whispered while she grabbed hold of John's arm again. "What was that?"

"Not a hound from hell, I'm sure. Let's go," John whispered. At that exact moment they heard an eerie howl echo through the trees.

"And that?" Kyrie asked nervously.

"Well, whatever it was, it's still not a hound from hell." But John sounded nervous as well. "Come on, let's go. We need to find Sherlock and Henry."

Kyrie couldn't agree more and they both started running in the direction of Dewer's Hollow. Another drawn out howl ripped through the night. Kyrie felt her heart hammering in her throat as she rushed past bushes and trees, twigs and branches catching at her hair.

Just as they reached Dewer's Hollow, they saw Henry and Sherlock come running out.

"Did you hear that?" John cried out, a panicky edge to his voice.

"We saw it! We saw it!" Henry stammered in a daze while Sherlock just grimly brushed past them.

"No, I didn't see anything," Sherlock denied the statement.

"What?" Henry picked up his pace to reach Sherlock. "What are you talking about?"

"I didn't. See. Anything." Sherlock gritted out while quickly marching on.

John looked at Henry who seemed really upset by Sherlock denying what they'd seen. The three of them trailed through the lands as quickly as they could, trying to ignore their fatigue and the pain in their feet. When they finally reached Henry's place, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"You go after him, Kyrie. I'll see Henry safe for the night first. I'll give him some sedatives to help him sleep. If you take a left here and go through the fields, it will be just a short walk. You'll be okay?"

Kyrie nodded quickly and wished him luck with Henry. Poor thing, his mental state had already been pretty fragile to begin with. Whatever just happened to them at Dewer's Hollow, Kyrie hoped that it would help Sherlock to soon unravel this mystery. If only so Henry could finally put his demon's to rest.

Her first thought was that maybe Sherlock had gone up to their room to tread the wood panels bare by pacing up and down. Upstairs however, she found the room to be dark and abandoned. She shrugged herself out of her coat and went to the closet to hang it away. Looking in the mirror she noticed that Sherlock's coat and scarf were flung onto the bed. She put those away as well and made her way downstairs again.

Eventually, she found him sitting in one of the two armchairs near a burning fireplace, its flames licking at wooden logs, emanating a soft glow and intermittent crackling sounds. It was a cosy little area in the small dining room of the pub, where several people were present, enjoying an evening dinner.

Sherlock did not acknowledge her presence when she seated herself in the armchair opposite of him. He just stared into the flames, his fingers steepled underneath his chin. A glass filled with amber liquid sitting on a small table was within his reach. One look at it taught her it was not a whiskey and soda, a drink she knew he favoured. If he was shooting up the stuff straight, that meant something had rattled him.

It didn't take long before John showed up as well. He simply grabbed a vacant dinner chair and pulled it over so he could join them.

"Well, he's in a pretty bad way. He's manic," John said as he flopped down, his voice clipped with light accusation, "Totally convinced there's some mutant super-dog roaming the moors."

Kyrie saw Sherlock's eyes restlessly darting around at the mere mention of 'mutant super-dog'.

"And there isn't, though, is there? If people knew how to make a mutant super-dog, we'd know."

Sherlock closed his eyes and a brief look of disgust crossed his features when John mentioned the dog again. John just kept rambling on about it. "It'd be for sale. I mean, that's how it works."

John leaned over a bit and pulled out his notebook, seemingly completely oblivious to Sherlock's current state. Kyrie had no idea what that state was as she'd never seen him this way, but she was surprised that John hadn't caught on yet. He was usually much more aware of his friend's moods and whims.

"Listen, on the moor Kyrie and I saw someone signalling, Morse. I guess it's Morse, though it doesn't seem to make much sense. Maybe you can make something out of it. Um… U.M.Q.R.A, does that mean anything to you?" he asked, ignoring the fact how Sherlock was forcefully blinking his eyes as though he was trying to rid himself of some tenacious vision he did not want to see. He folded his fingers, breathed heavily, clenched his eyes shut just to open them immediately again on a loud puff of air. That finally seemed to catch John's attention, as Sherlock drew in a slow steadying breath.

Instead of commenting on Sherlock's current state, John decided to ignore it and pressed on with the matter at hand. "So, okay, what have we got? We know there's footprints, because Henry found them and so did the tour guide bloke…"

Kyrie kept her eyes on Sherlock and worried her lip. He was completely out of it and it quite frankly scared her a bit.

"We all heard something," John continued. Kyrie gently nudged his leg with her foot, nodding her head in Sherlock's direction who had started breathing heavily again. He just raised his brows at her. "Maybe we should just look for whoever has got a big dog," he said on a sigh.

Kyrie rolled her eyes at John's sudden ineptitude to read his friend. It was Sherlock himself who finally alerted John to his current state of mind. "Henry's right," he suddenly said, his voice soft.

"What?" John asked.

"I saw it, too," Sherlock finally admitted.

"What?" John asked again.

"I saw it too, John," Sherlock repeated, his voice not quite steady.

John looked at Kyrie, but she just shrugged her shoulders. He knew Sherlock much longer than she did and she'd never seen him display this kind of behaviour.

"Just…" John said with a deep sigh, "Just a minute, you saw what?"

"A hound," Sherlock spit out and he settled his gaze on John. "Out there in the Hollow."

Both Kyrie and John were taken aback by the haunted look in his eyes. "A gigantic hound!" He spat out, his face contorted in a mask of fear and loathing.

Whatever it was that he'd seen, it had shaking him to the core. His eyes looked suspiciously watery, as if he were on the verge of crying. Now Kyrie understood why he had been blinking so furiously. Sherlock was desperately trying to keep the tears at bay. He did not want to succumb to something he considered to be utterly beneath him. Emotions.

"Um, look Sherlock, we have to be rational about this," John said while still completely ignoring the signs that, whatever was going on, Sherlock at the moment was far from okay. "Okay, now you, of all people, can't just…"

Sherlock brought his fingers to his lips in a self-soothing manner while John, in his own way, tried to sooth the rattled detective. "Let's just stick to what we know, yes? Stick to the facts."

"Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true…" Sherlock muttered softly.

"What does that even mean?" John asked sounding confused. With a look of disgust, Sherlock lifted his glass from the table, his fingers were trembling violently and he had difficulty to keep the glass steady.

"Look at me, I'm afraid, John," Sherlock said with a mirthless chuckle. "Afraid," he repeated in revulsion before he took a huge gulp of the amber liquid. Even that sounded very unsteady, causing Sherlock to glare at the offending extremities that were betraying him so openly. With a look of utter loathing, Sherlock stared at his current inability to keep his glass steady.

"Sherlock…"

"I've always been able to keep myself distant," he said, throwing back another big, shaky gulp of his drink. He swallowed loudly. "Divorce myself from feelings," he spat out the last word is if it were a vile thing, something bitter he had to spit from his mouth. "But look, you see, body's betraying me. Something I've recently discovered, my body is not always in sync with my mind. Interesting, yes? Emotions. The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment."

Kyrie rolled her eyes at his disgust over something as human as emotions.

"Yeah, all right, Spock, just… Take it easy," John said to try and calm him down a bit, "You've been pretty wired lately, you know you have."

Oh God, what was John thinking? This had nothing to do with that!

"John," Kyrie softly said, placing a hand on his arm, but John pulled his arm back.

"I think you've gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up."

"Worked up?" Sherlock said sounding utterly offended. Clearly he didn't like his friend thinking that getting 'worked up' could even apply to him in this realm of possibility.

"It was dark and scary," John defended the notion. Kyrie just threw her hands up in despair. Never before had she seen John to just throw a vat of oil into the fire like that.

"Me? There's nothing wrong with me." Sherlock said with a conceited chuckle, sounding thoroughly insulted by the very idea. The tight smile dropped from his face as he had to steady himself with a few fortifying breaths again. His fingers flew to his head and he massaged his temples, willing away whatever he was seeing or thinking. To be quite honest, and Kyrie claimed absolutely no knowledge about the subject, but Sherlock was acting as though he was experiencing a really bad trip.

John looked on and this time he finally seemed to see how Sherlock was desperately trying to keep a grip on his own emotions. As someone who, by his own confession, had always been able to divorce himself from any feelings and emotions, this onslaught must be as alien to him as a Martian teleporting down to dance a salsa in front of them.

"Sherlock," John said, trying to get through to his friend as he'd started breathing heavily again to try and gain control over his emotions and his own body. Sherlock's hands started shaking more and more violently, his fingers still pressed against his temples and his eyes clenched shut.

"Sherl…" John tried again but this time Sherlock just erupted like an angry volcano. "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" he yelled so loud that spit flew from his mouth. People turned in their seats in surprise to look at them. Even Sherlock seemed mildly embarrassed at suddenly having garnered such attention.

"You want me to prove it, yes? We're looking for a dog, yes? A great big dog, that's your brilliant theory," Sherlock said, his voice scathing. "Cherchez le chien! Good, excellent. Yes. Where shall we start?" He quickly scanned the dining room. "How about them?"

Kyrie groaned as Sherlock wasn't exactly using his quiet voice and even had the audacity to jab his finger in the direction of the people he meant. He was just not subtle about it. Then again, there was nothing subtle about his current temper, with his eyes wild, his skin damp with a sheen of cold sweat and his limbs shivering uncontrollably. She mentally braced herself for another torrent of quick deductions.

"The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman."

Kyrie knew it was to no avail to even wonder how the hell he knew. He would soon share his conclusions with them anyway, whether they wanted to know or not.

"The answer is yes," Sherlock said, answering an unasked question.

"Yes?" John ventured cautiously.

"She's got a West Highland Terrier called Whiskey, not exactly what we're looking for!" he hissed.

John groaned as he finally seemed to realise what Sherlock was up to. "Sherlock, for God's sake!"

"Look at the jumper he's wearing, hardly worn. Clearly he's uncomfortable in it. Maybe because of the material…"

"I'd say the hideous pattern is a safer bet," Kyrie suggested softly, ignoring the glare John sent her. She just didn't know what else to do but go with it.

"Agreed," Sherlock concurred, "It suggests it's a present, probably Christmas. So, he wants into his mother's good books. Why? Almost certainly money."

He turned his head, glancing at the son again. "He's treating her to a meal, but his own portion is small. That means he wants to impress her, but he's trying to economise on his own food."

"Maybe he's just not hungry," John disagreed, seeming to be anything but happy about being roped in Sherlock's games of deduction again.

"No, small plate," Sherlock countered immediately, "Starter. He's practically licked it clean. She's nearly finished her pavlova. If she'd treated him, he'd have had as much as he wanted."

Kyrie nodded her head at the sound logic of his observations. Whatever was going on with him, at least it hadn't diminished his observation skills. In fact… he seemed to notice even more, pouring over even minute details.

"He's hungry all right but not well-off, you can tell that by the state of his cuffs and shoes. 'How do you know she's his mother?'" Sherlock said in a mock tone, "Who else would give him a Christmas present like that. It could be an aunt or an older sister," he admitted to a possible flaw in his deduction. "But mother's more likely. Now, he was a fisherman. The scarring pattern on the back of his hands is very distinctive. Fish hooks. They're quite old now, which suggests he's been unemployed for some time."

He shifted back in his seat. "Not much industry in this part of the world, so he turned to his widowed mother for help. 'Widowed?'" he answered for John in a mock tone again, "Yes, obviously. She's got a man's wedding ring on a chain around her neck. Clearly her late husband's and too big for her finger. She's well-dressed but her jewellery is cheap. She could afford better, but she's kept it, it's sentimental."

Kyrie tiredly rubbed her eyes as Sherlock continued his rant at an ever increasing speed, not even slightly stumbling over the words.

"Now. The dog. Tiny little hairs all over the leg where it gets a little too friendly, but no hairs above the knees suggesting it's a small dog, probably a terrier. In fact it is. West Highland Terrier called Whiskey. 'How the hell do you know that, Sherlock?'" he mocked yet again, "'Cause she was on the same train as us and I heard her calling its name and that's not cheating, that's listening. I use my senses, John, unlike some people. So you see, I am fine, in fact I've never been better so just…Leave. Me. Alone!" he hissed.

Kyrie could see John felt offended. Probably felt the 'unlike some people' was a personal jab. Whatever it was that had offended him, she could see John was done for the night.

"Yeah," John said clearing his voice. "Okay, okay."

Sherlock turned away from him again to resume his staring into the flames.

"Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend," John said sarcastically.

"I don't have _friends_." Sherlock made it sound as if the entire concept was appalling to him. Well, this went south very quickly.

"Nah, I wonder why?" John said. He cleared his throat again, rose from the chair and started to walk away. He seemed to change his mind and turned around for a brief moment. "I'm heading out," he said, "If _he's_ having a fit later on, don't call me. Apparently, I'm not his friend."

Kyrie heaved a sigh as she watched John angrily walking away. For a while she just kept Sherlock company in silence, taking in every nervous twitch of his body, every scowl that crossed his features, even the sweat pearling on his forehead, dampening the curls above his ears.

She watched people come and go. Some of them were casting curious glances in their direction. Kyrie kind of wished they were upstairs, where he could get, whatever that was effecting him, out of his system, in private.

"Sherlock," she finally called out to him in a soft voice, "Come on. Let's go."

"What, am I _embarrassing_ you?" he spat. "If you want to go, just go. No one's forcing you to stay."

"Sherlock, I know something rattled you tonight and you are not quite yourself. Therefore I will ignore the way you lashed out at John and the childish temper tantrum you threw. You have two choices, either you will come with me and people here will see a caring wife supporting her inebriated husband."

"Or?" he hissed, seemingly hell-bent on opting for choice two, whatever that may be.

"Or, you let me stand here, like an idiot, forcing me to ultimately head upstairs by myself. Now, I know option two may seem to be the most appealing choice for you. Just ask yourself this, which of these two options would you want to reach Gerulf's ears?"

"As if Gerulf actually has people here," Sherlock grumbled, but Kyrie could see he saw the logic of her point.

"You really want to take that chance?" Kyrie challenged. When he didn't answer her, Kyrie sighed in defeat and turned around to leave him alone.

"Wait," he said softly. "It would look better if…" She turned around and arched a brow at him. He then proceeded to put up quite a show, struggling to get out of the arm chair. Once he stood up straight, he started wobbling on his feet. He slightly raised one of his arms and shot her a meaningful look. She nodded almost imperceptibly and walked over to him, allowing him to fling his arm around her shoulder looking absolutely trousered.

Kyrie smiled a bit apologetically at the people in the diner, as if she were embarrassed by her husband's drunken antics. She received a few pitying glances but other than that, people quickly resumed their own little conversations.

"Wait," Sherlock whispered as Kyrie guided him back through the pub in the direction of their room. Kyrie saw him reach into the inside pocket of his jacket with his free hand and slyly take out his phone.

"Really, Sherlock? This is not the moment to start texting," she said.

"This _is_ the moment, look, people think I'm drunk-texting," he muttered.

"Who are you texting anyway?"

"John."

"What for?"

"Opportunity. Henry's therapist is in the pub."

"So?"

"He could interview her."

Kyrie snorted at his comment. Leave it to Sherlock to first insult his only friend before saddling him with some task. "Why should he? You were an absolute arse to him earlier!"

"Because _that's_ his therapist." Sherlock suddenly turned his body around, dragging her with him until she was looking at a pretty brunette waiting at the bar for a drink.

"See? You are an evil git," Kyrie muttered as they continued their way. Through his awkward movements, while he was pretending to be drunk, Kyrie noticed he was shaking and shivering, still effected by... whatever was going on.

When they reached the stairs, no other people around, he still seemed to struggle in his effort to climb up without help. The moment they reached the inner safety and privacy of their room, Sherlock immediately flopped down onto the bed.

Kyrie tried to force him up again to try and take his jacket off but he wasn't budging.

"Leave me alone!" he whined.

Kyrie huffed at him. "I will, just… at least give me your jacket."

He grumbled something unintelligently but complied with her wish and, after a bit of struggling, handed her his jacket. She draped it over one of the coat hangers and hung it over the closet door. When she turned back to him, she gasped a bit seeing his shirt was drenched with sweat under his arms and over his chest. Kyrie decided to say nothing about it. She just crouched near his feet to free them from his shoes and socks, leaving it up to himself what he wanted to do next.

When he noticed the sweat stains himself, what he wanted to do next seemed to be to take a shower. He forced himself from the bed and he walked to the tiny room. Kyrie soon heard him laugh sarcastically right before he yelled a few obscenities. She carefully peeked her head around the corner and found him hunched over the water basin, his hands gripping at the hard porcelain, his arms trembling. When he noticed her, he pushed himself up and turned around at her so she had a full view of his body simply refusing to cooperate with him.

"I can't…" he started. He chuckled in a way that made him sound quite demented. "Look at me, my hands, I can't…" He couldn't even bring himself to finish the sentence. Whatever it was that he couldn't do, Sherlock felt completely mortified by it. Almost as if he didn't want to allow himself to show such a level of weakness and vulnerability.

When Kyrie noticed his shirt was pulled from his pants, but was still buttoned up, she had a good idea what his grief was. She worried her lip, afraid he would just lash out at her again if she would offer her assistance. In the end, she didn't offer it, she just gave it.

Without saying a word, Kyrie entered the small space and lifted his hand to undo the buttons of the cuff. She then dropped his hand and continued with the other one. She avoided all eye contact as she swiftly and methodically started to unbutton his shirt starting at the top. So far, Sherlock had not pushed her away nor had he started yelling. He just… let her.

When she finally pushed the last button of his shirt through the little buttonhole, she didn't miss a beat and quickly did the same for the button of his trousers, ignoring his sharp intake of breath at the suddenness of her action. Feeling her cheeks getting warm, Kyrie quickly turned around to leave Sherlock by himself, trusting and hoping he could manage the rest by himself.

The moment Kyrie heard the sound of water begin to jettison from the shower head, she realised he had completely forgotten to bring a pair of briefs and his PJ's. She groaned in embarrassment as she saw no other option but to rummage through his suitcase for the items. Thank goodness, Sherlock Holmes was a neat freak when it came to packing clothes. His suitcase was as neatly organised and indexed as the dresser back home.

She quietly sneaked back into the small space, made sure a shower towel and a hair towel were in his reach and left the small pile of clothing there for him to find. Kyrie hurried back into the bedroom, shrugged herself out of her clothes, donned her nightshirt and hopped in bed.

By the time Kyrie noticed his weight settle next to her on the mattress, she realised she had dozed off a bit and that Sherlock had quietly slid underneath the covers.

She noticed he was still trembling, but not as violently as before. She felt she had pushed enough boundaries for the night and decided against trying to comfort him by touch. If he wanted or needed anything else, he would just have to say it, like any other normal human being. Kyrie snorted a bit at the thought, knowing that was the last thing he would do. Soon, she gave it no other thought, as sleep started to claim her.


	20. She's not my friend!

**judygrasham. Hmm, for some reason your review is not showing up. I'm not entirely sure what you mean with 'what happened after Sherlock ran John off'. If you mean from Sherlock's point of view... well... you are about to find out *evil smirk*. Also, I'm not sure what you mean with something 'off' about the therapist. Meaning, if I didn't notice, it's unlikely that Kyrie did. If you can explain what you mean, I can maybe edit the chapter a bit. Thank you for pointing out my mistake, btw. Really appreciate it! Should be changed by now. And of course, I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

 **SplittingImage4 Haha, thank you for your awesome review! I'm glad to read my updates make you feel giddy. I feel giddy whenever I get a new review, so... win win :) This chapter is a bit less full of 'original' content, so... I hope the start of this chapter makes up for that *wink wink* Enjoy this new chapter!**

Sherlock was curled up on his side and he knew one thing for sure. He'd been high as a kite. Whatever had happened in the woods had absolutely nothing to do with some hellish super-dog. He had been drugged. But how? Why? When? He didn't know.

His head still felt like a giant jumbled mess. Something he absolutely detested. The drugs he usually took always helped his focus, enhanced his intellect.

Yes, he'd been able to do a quick deduction about the widowed mother and her fisherman son, but that was about it. He'd felt absolutely paralysed by some of the effects of… whatever he'd been drugged with.

The absolute worst had been the fear and the doubt. He'd always been able to rely on his senses, until tonight, and it had been utterly terrifying. That loss of control, not just over his body but his mind as well, he never wanted to experience that kind of helplessness again. No matter how high he was on drugs, he'd always retained a sense of control.

Whatever this had been, it had the ability to completely mess with one's head. It brought one's deepest fears to life… and most hidden desires. He tossed and turned in the bed. Still restless, still feeling some after-effects of the drug. His control still just out of reach. He should just try and sleep. Tomorrow he'd be better again. He'd be in total control. No scary visions and his body would no longer betray him. As it had done earlier. As it was doing now.

He turned on his other side and breathed in a steadying breath. The moment the soft dying notes of a floral scent hit his nose and he felt her breath tickling against his skin, he realised his mistake. He groaned softly. Really, he should just try and go to sleep… Should.

He didn't need to open his eyes to know he was face to face with Kyrie. Their noses almost touching. He noticed his heart started beating just a bit faster. If he were to look into a mirror he knew he'd find his pupils to be blown wide open. "Emotions are the grit on the lens," he whispered and tried to convey his usual disdain. "The fly in the ointment."

His eyes were still closed, but his body was far from relaxed. He knew it was time to turn around. Tomorrow he would be himself again. The only turning his body decided to do however, was a slight turn of his head, so his lips brushed against Kyrie's. His body then betrayed him even more when his lips drew in her lower lip. He parted his lips, releasing hers, only to gently suck it back in again. His arm snaked around her, pulling her closer as his fingers started threading through her hair.

His lips searched for hers again and he sighed feeling her lips part under the soft pressure of his kiss. He responded by delving his tongue in her mouth, drawing her in, inviting her tongue to play with his as he drove his tongue into her mouth, filling it, then withdrawing again.

With a silent moan of surrender, Kyrie turned her face fully toward him and returned his kiss, her body pliant beneath him. Until she suddenly stilled. Apparently he had half rolled on top of her during their heated kiss, and when he opened his eyes he found her staring up at him.

Though it was very dark in the room, the small beam of moonlight that fell in through the window, ensured him that her eyes had never been more violet as that moment. 

"Sherlock?" she asked sounding sleepy, aroused and surprised at the same time, "What are you doing?"

"Kissing my wife," he stated plainly and moved in to capture her lips with his again, but she stopped him by planting her hand against his chest.

"Not that I'm not enjoying this, a lot," she whispered with a voice that betrayed her as much as his own body did. "But it's not going to happen. I know you and this isn't you. You'd regret it in the morning and you'd resent me if I let you. Go to sleep, Sherlock. Please."

He flopped back on the mattress and covered his face with his hands. She was right. He knew she was right. He didn't like it very a much at the moment though and also he didn't like the fact that he didn't like it.

It took a long time, but at some point he finally, thankfully, did fall asleep.

The next morning, Kyrie awoke with a start. She bolted up and her eyes wildly darted to the space next to her, which was blissfully unoccupied. Kyrie pressed her hand against her chest, willing her heart to beat at a steadier pace. She took a deep breath and then told herself that everything was fine. Sherlock had not been himself last night. It had been a nice sensation to slowly wake up to him kissing her, but it hadn't meant anything. She knew that kiss had never been his intention. Best thing to do was to forget it even happened. Knowing Sherlock he'd want to forget it had happened as well.

She didn't take long to get dressed, to get ready for the day. She put on a long off the shoulder blouse, with an elegant floral pattern in soft pink and grey colours, and under that a simple pair of grey pants. After a quick breakfast she wandered outside in search for John. After the previous evening, she wanted to know if he was okay. Kyrie took out her phone and sent him a text.

– Where you at? K

It didn't take long before she got a reply.

\- Churchyard

\- Lovely

\- Yes

She smirked and quickly strolled through the streets to meet up with John. She found him sitting on the roughly hewn stones of a memorial and sat down next to him.

"Morning, John," she said with a smile. John briefly looked up from his notebook to say good morning as well. Immediately his eyes snapped back to hers, a look of utter surprise on his face.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said, before shaking his head.

"John? Tell me, John!" she ordered him.

"Nope, not falling for that again. I could tell you but then you'd only get testy with me again. I'm only prepared to lose one friend so… not saying."

"Come on, don't be like this. You know you didn't lose a friend."

"No, you're right, apparently he never was my friend anyway... Have you looked in the mirror this morning?"

"You know what he can be like. Of course he's your friend. You're the only one who can put up with him. And yes, I did look into the mirror this morning. Why?"

"Have you seen your eyes?" John asked, ignoring the rest of her remark.

"Not the eyes thing again? What now? Are they too blue again? Too green? Or maybe during my walk over here they turned brown?"

"No, they are very, very violet this morning."

"Well, at least that should make Sherlock happy. Maybe now he will stop complaining about my eyes being too blue."

"It's good to see them violet again," John said softly.

Kyrie was about to ask why her eye colour seemed so important for both men when the creaking noise of the wrought iron gate drew her attention. It was Sherlock and he was walking right up to them. His hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat and he had a mildly uncomfortable look on his face. John briefly looked up from his notebook, but otherwise ignored Sherlock's presence. He went straight back to studying the contents of his notebook.

"Did you get anywhere with that Morse code?" Sherlock asked, his voice devoid of sarcasm or any hard edge. He was trying to make amends.

"Nah," John said who stood up and started to walk away. John did not seem to be in a forgiving mood this morning. Kyrie followed quickly because she knew Sherlock would immediately stick to John like glue.

"U, M, Q, R, A, wasn't it?" Sherlock did not want to give up. "Umqra."

"Nothing," John said as Sherlock repeated the letters 'UMQ…' Probably searching his 'Mind Palace' for a possible meaning.

"Look, forget it," John cut him off while marching down the road, "I thought I was on to something, I wasn't."

"Sure?" Sherlock asked.

"John, Sherlock, please slow down a bit. I can eat your dust, it's not pleasant," Kyrie complained. Sherlock immediately stopped so she could catch up, John still looked angry with Sherlock and walked a few more paces before he too stopped heaving a big sigh.

"Yeah," he finally said.

"How about Louise Mortimer, did you get anywhere with her?" Sherlock asked.

"No," John said and he started walking again, though at a steadier pace.

"Too bad, but did you get any information?" Sherlock deadpanned.

"Hmm," John snorted with humourless chuckle, "You being funny now?"

"Thought it might break the ice, a bit," Sherlock said. The solemn look on his face told Kyrie that Sherlock was acutely aware of his actions the evening before, and he regretted them deeply.

"Funny doesn't suit you," John said dismissively, "Let's stick to the ice."

"John…" Sherlock started, but John still didn't seem interested in listening to whatever he had to say.

"It's fine," he just said, thought his voice betrayed an emotion that suggested he was anything but fine with it.

"Look, wait, what happened last night, something happened to me. Something I've not really experienced before…"

"Yes, you said," John said impatiently, "Fear, Sherlock Holmes got scared, you said."

John just kept on walking. "No, no, no," Sherlock said and he grabbed John's arm, trying to get him to listen, to really listen and give him a chance. "It was more than that, John. Last night I really wasn't myself. Kyrie can vouch for that."

John raised his brows at her.

"It's true, John. I won't go into details but… he's right."

"Then what was it?" he asked.

"It was doubt… for one. I felt doubt. I've always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night." Sherlock was getting a bit agitated again, just thinking back to it seemed to get him all riled up again.

"You can't actually believe that you saw some kind of monster?" John asked incredulously.

"No, I can't believe that," Sherlock agreed and a mild glint of 'The Game' madness returned to his eyes, "But I did see it, so the question is, how? How?"

"Yes," John said, giving Sherlock a bit of a weird look. To be honest, if this was Sherlock's idea of an apology, it was kind of rubbish.

"Yeah, right. Good. So, you've got something to go on then. Good luck with that."

John started to walk away again and this time Sherlock stayed where he was, and Kyrie felt torn. She gently nudged Sherlock in the side. He had to make things right. He had to learn it was not okay to say stuff like that and not at least try to make amends. Their eyes locked for a moment and Kyrie quietly nodded in John's direction. A quick smile tugged at Sherlock's lips before he turned his head to get John's attention.

"Listen, what I said before, John… I meant it. I don't have friends... I've just got one," he finally admitted.

Now that finally got John's attention. "One friend?" John asked, "And who exactly might that be? 'Cause I see two people here with you, Sherlock. Two. Not one."

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. "You mean Kyrie? She's not my friend!"

John immediately turned around again to walk away and Kyrie couldn't help but feel a bit slighted. Somewhere deep inside she knew he didn't mean it that way and he would soon explain his words. She hoped.

"She's my wife, John! Entirely different thing!"

And there it was. Still, bit of a rubbish explanation since she was not really his wife. Not… really.

"Right," John said before he turned around again to walk away.

"John…" Sherlock called after him, but he kept walking. Suddenly an idea seemed to have struck Sherlock. "John, you are amazing! You are fantastic!" he cried out and suddenly trotted after John.

"Yes, all right, you don't have to overdo it," John said.

"You may not be the most luminous of people," Sherlock said as he moved himself in front of John to be able to look at him, "But as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable," he turned around again, grabbed his own notebook from the pocket of his coat and took over John's lead.

"Cheers! What?"

Kyrie smirked.

"Some people who aren't geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others," Sherlock explained while scribbling something in the notebook.

"Hang on, you were saying sorry a minute ago," John complained, "Don't spoil it!"

"Ah, John!" Kyrie said with a smirk, "If anyone else had said it, I agree it would have been an insult. Coming from his mouth however," she nodded in Sherlock's direction, "I think it was actually meant as a compliment."

"Fine, what have I done that's so bloody stimulating?" he asked. Sherlock turned around and showed him the word HOUND scribbled in the notebook.

"It says hound… what about it?"

"What if it's not a word? What if it's individual letters?" Sherlock asked as he placed dots between the letters of the word and then showed them the result, H.O.U.N.D.

"You think it's an acronym?" John asked.

"Absolutely no idea," Sherlock confessed, "But…"

They hadn't noticed they had ended up right in front of the open door to the pub, but something, or rather someone, had caught Sherlock's attention.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" Sherlock erupted suddenly. That someone turned out to be none other than DI Greg Lestrade, standing casually near the front desk. He was leisurely dressed in a pair of grey slacks, matching lightweight coat, black shirt and a pair of sunglasses was shielding his eyes.

"Well, nice to see you too," Greg commented dryly. He didn't look at all impressed by the sudden outburst. I'm on holiday, would you believe?"

"No, I wouldn't," Sherlock immediately replied.

Lestrade smiled upon seeing John and Kyrie enter the pub as well. He plucked the sunglasses from his face and greeted them with an easy smile.

"Hello, John… Mrs Holmes."

"Oh, so him you call John but I get a 'Mrs Holmes', Greg? And we even sang a duet!" Kyrie scoffed, but she smiled to let him know she was happy to see him.

"Hello, Greg," John said with a chuckle.

"Sorry… Kyrie…" Greg amended with a grin.

"Better!" she told him.

"Oh wonderful, everyone is saying 'hello' and establishing first name basis," Sherlock said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "What you are doing here!"

"I heard you were in the area," Greg said lightly, "What are you up to? Are you after this Hound of Hell? Like on the telly?" he asked while pocketing his sunglasses.

"I'm still waiting for an explanation, Inspector," Sherlock said impatiently, "Why are you here?"

"I've told you, I'm on a holiday…"

"You are brown as a nut!" Sherlock interjected, "You're clearly just back from your holidays." Sherlock put a clear emphasis on the plural form of holiday.

"I fancied another one," Greg commented dryly. Kyrie couldn't help but grin at him. She liked the guy, he had a great sense of humour!

"Oh, this is Mycroft, isn't it?" Sherlock said full of disdain.

"Now look," Greg said while accepting the pint of beer that was offered to him, but Sherlock cut him off again.

"One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my _handler_ to… to spy on me, incognito," Sherlock chuckled in a mocking manner, "Is that why you're calling yourself _Greg_?"

Kyrie couldn't repress a snort of laughter. John looked at Sherlock in disbelief. "That's his name!" he cried out.

"Is it?" Sherlock asked in surprise.

"Yes," Greg replied a bit testily, "If you'd ever bothered to find out… Look, I'm not your handler. And I don't just do what your brother tells me," Greg took a sip of his beer. "But, he did have a request for me. Turns out, your brother wasn't too happy when a certain Mrs Holmes here was left to her own devices while you boys were off… whatever you were doing. Sorry, 'Kyrie'," he corrected himself.

"I'm not going to pretend I know what's going on, but according to Mycroft there is someone with an _unhealthy_ interest in her. He asked me to keep an eye out in case you guys go off… gallivanting again."

"We don't _gallivant_ _!"_ Sherlock clearly took offence. "And Mycroft can bloody well mind his own damn business."

"Don't look at me," Greg told him, raising his hands in defence, "I didn't mind extending my vacation for a few more days."

"Actually," John cut in, "You could be _just_ the man we want."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded, he did not like not being in the loop.

"Well, I've not been idle, Sherlock," John started to rummage around in his pockets, "I think I might have found something…Here." He folded a piece of paper open and showed it to Sherlock. "I didn't know if it was relevant. Starting to look like it might be. That is an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant."

"Excellent," Sherlock muttered, his eyes glinting with anticipation.

"A nice, scary inspector from Scotland Yard, who can put in a few calls…. Might come in very handy," John said with a smug look on his face as he punched the desk bell with the palm of his hand, "Shop!'

Not long after that, Greg was carefully going through all the paperwork and administration. Greg was seated at a large wooden table in a nice secluded little area, a bit off to side of the bar. Gary and Billy had joined him and couldn't keep themselves from shooting nervous glances at each other and Greg.

Sherlock noisily stirred the contents of a cup of coffee with a spoon. It caught Kyrie's attention. Actually, the way he set his jaw, was what caught her attention. What the devil was he up to? He loudly tapped the spoon against the side of the mug in a quick staccato and carried the cup of coffee over to John who was leaning against the wall near the doorway.

"What's this?" John asked in surprise. "Coffee. I made coffee," Sherlock said quietly as if him bringing someone else coffee was the most usual and normal thing in the world. Kyrie immediately squinted her eyes at him. John stared at Sherlock as if he'd just sprouted two heads. "You never make coffee," he remarked.

"I just did. Don't you want it?"

"You don't have to keep apologising," John said. Sherlock looked away, a brief look of hurt briefly crossing his face. It made John change his mind and with a soft thanks he accepted the coffee.

Sherlock smiled, showing relief that John had accepted his token of amends. Sherlock Holmes never made anything for anyone. At Baker Street, Sherlock basically just waited around until he was served.

When John took a sip of the coffee, Sherlock looked on with a bit too much of interest. Suddenly John frowned, "Hmm, I don't take sugar," he said in disgust. Something Sherlock knew very well. Again, Sherlock looked away with that theatrical look of hurt on his face. He was faking it!

John, with that big heart of his, gulped down the coffee away even though his face betrayed how much he detested the sweet sugary taste.

"These records go back nearly two months," Greg asked Billy and Gary. John finished his coffee with a brave face and told Sherlock the coffee was nice, good. He was lying through his teeth. The look in Sherlock's eyes as he kept his gaze on John for a moment, unnerved Kyrie. She had no idea what was going on, but something was… going on.

"Is that when you had the idea?" Greg asked, "After the TV show went out?"

"It's me," Billy immediately confessed. "It was me. I'm sorry, Gary, I couldn't help it. I had a bacon sandwich at Cal's wedding. " Sherlock smirked hearing Billy's explanation. "And one thing led to another."

"Nice try," Greg commended.

"Look," Gary cut in, "We were just trying to give things a bit of a boost, you know? Let a great big dog run wild up on the moor, it was heaven sent. It was like having our own Loch Nech Monster."

"And where do you keep it?" Greg asked.

"There's an old mine shaft. It's not too far. He was all right there," Gary defended his actions.

"Was?" Sherlock asked.

Gary sighed heavily and shook his head, "We couldn't control the bloody thing. It was vicious," he snarled. He took another deep breath to calm himself. "And then, a month ago, Billy took him to the vet and err, you know…"

John walked over to them, "It's dead?" he asked, looking from one to the other. Gary nodded his head in acknowledgement. "Put down," he clarified further, in case the nod wasn't clear enough.

"Yeah," Billy agreed, "No choice. So, it's over." Something about the way he said those words, or looked when he said those words… it felt very insincere to Kyrie.

"It was just a joke. You know?" Gary tried to garner some sympathy for the entire situation.

"Yeah, hilarious," Greg said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He pushed himself upright and stepped away from the chair. "You've nearly driven a man out of his mind." Greg marched away in obvious disgust.

John followed Greg and Kyrie went after him, throwing a look over her shoulder when Sherlock seemed to linger behind. She caught him checking John's coffee mug.

"What are you doing?" Kyrie asked suspiciously.

"Just checking to see if John really did like his coffee or if he was lying," he replied innocently.

"Sure you were!" she scoffed and then walked away to catch up with the others.

"You know he's actually pleased you're here?" John quietly said to Greg, "Secretly pleased," he amended.

"Is he?" Greg didn't sound too convinced, "That's nice."

Kyrie followed John and Greg outside. "I suppose he likes having all the same faces together," he said with a smirk. "Appeals to his… His…" He couldn't find the right word. At that moment footsteps came closer and Sherlock appeared outside as well.

"Asperger's?" John suggested. The look that briefly crossed Sherlock's face made Kyrie think he'd overheard that last comment. To be fair, John could very well have a point. Sherlock definitely possessed certain character traits that could be described as classical Asperger signs. Kyrie shook her head. It didn't matter. Sherlock was just… Sherlock.

"So, you believe them about having the dog destroyed?" Greg directed his question at Sherlock.

"No reason not to."

"Well, hopefully there's no harm done," Greg said, "I'm not quite sure what I'd charge them with, anyway. I'll have a word with the local force. So, you guys done here? If you've got some gallivanting on your mind, please let me know. Your brother and all that."

"No gallivanting on our minds, I assure you," Sherlock said with a fake smile.

"All right, that's that then. Catch you later," Greg started to walk away but turned around one last time. "I'm enjoying this," he said with a smile, "It's nice to get London out of your lungs." He nodded at them in a last greeting and walked off.

"So, that was their dog that people saw out on the moor?" John asked Sherlock.

"Looks like it."

John shook his head. "But that wasn't what you saw, that wasn't an ordinary dog."

"No," Sherlock said gravely, "It was immense. It had burning red eyes, and it was _glowing_ , John. Its _whole_ body was _glowing_ ," he repeated as though he were lost in the memory. He suddenly shook his head as if to clear it from the image and then started to walk away.

"I've got a theory, but I need to get back into Baskerville to test it," Sherlock explained.

Kyrie stopped dead in her tracks. "Sherlock, you just told Lestrade… no gallivanting!"

"We're not _gallivanting_ , Kyrie!" he said chagrined, "Besides, you're coming with us. Lestrade was only a precaution, since you are coming along, that point is moot."

Kyrie shot him a dark look. She knew perfectly well he was dragging her along just to annoy his brother, instead of being concerned for her well fare.

"How do you want to get inside?" John asked, "Can't pull off the ID trick again."

"Might not have to," Sherlock said as he started to make a call. "Hello, brother _dear_. How _are_ you?" Kyrie raised her brows in surprise. Wow, that insincere drawl must run in the family!

A heated discussion followed between Sherlock and his brother as they walked back to the car. Sherlock rolled his eyes a lot during the conversation. There were also many annoyed sighs and dark glares. "Are those your final terms?" he asked in the end. "Fine!"

"And?" John asked.

"We've got 24 hours," Sherlock stated grimly before he drove them off to Baskerville.


	21. You ain't nothing but a Hound Dog!

**A/N Ok, Fanfiction hates me! Approved Guest reviews are counted for the amount of reviews, but they are not shown after they've been approved. Very sorry for that!**

 **Anyway... Judygrasham My, oh my, these glowing reviews really make me blush! When I have time, I will try and add a bit to the chapter from Sherlock's POV. I decided against it at the time because, as became apparent, the drugs had a bit of a... side effect on him. And he was affected by that too at the time. Also, there are a few rules for changing POV. I found a little opening though, but, at the moment I'm really struggling at a really emotional scene set during 'The Empty Hearse' episode. It's taking a lot out of me to get it right plus I'm a bit busy at home as well and my job. So... I need to get cranking because you guys are gaining on me :) I will do my best to get back to a little added extra scene from Sherlock's POV!**

 **In my story, we only see a brief flash of John's therapist. And that is the flash when Sherlock turns his body, dragging Kyrie along with him to get a look at her. So, no, Kyrie didn't notice something was off :)**

 **Keara Thank you so much for pointing this out to me! I think it went wrong when I tried to add a change to a previous chapter and perhaps uploaded the wrong chapter... Oops! Since Fanfiction hates me, I had to delete the last chapters and upload them anew. So... even though I didn't plan to... Here's another update because followers will now be expecting one! Hope you enjoy!**

When they drove up the terrain, Kyrie's mouth dropped open seeing the scope of the base. They stopped outside the first gate. A soldier approached them with a German Shepard on the passenger side, while the soldier at the driver's side accepted Sherlock's ID card and requested him to turn off the car.

"I need to see Major Barrymore as soon as we get inside," Sherlock quietly said while they were waiting to get cleared.

"Right," John said.

"Which means you'll have to start the search for the hound."

The soldier with the military working dog circled the car to see if the dog would alert him to something illegal.

"Okay."

"In the labs. Stapleton's first. It could be dangerous."

Kyrie rolled her eyes. She knew Sherlock didn't mean it a warning, he was luring John in.

The gate opened for them when they were cleared. Sherlock restarted the engine and drove them through the gate, heading towards the base itself.

The moment they arrived, John slipped away to start his search while she and Sherlock were guided to what she presumed was Major Barrymore's office.

"Why am I even allowed here?" she asked him softly.

"Carte blanche, courtesy of my brother," Sherlock replied, equally as soft.

"But I'm a civilian."

"So is John. Plus, now we have carte blanche, there was no need to leave you behind."

"Handy dandy to have a brother who can give you clearance like that."

"Sometimes," Sherlock agreed with a slight smirk.

Major G. Barrymore's office was a small cramped space. The walls seemed to be covered with documents rather than any wallpaper or paint. The only source of light inside the room itself came from the ugliest lamp Kyrie had ever seen. The rest of the room's illumination were a few bright beams of light falling in through the wire glass windows, deriving from the bright lights in the lab across.

The man himself looked cross and was less than thrilled with the idea of letting her and Sherlock wander about unrestricted. "I'd love to give you unlimited access to this place. Why not?" His tone betrayed his true sentiment about the matter.

Sherlock's eyes darted away from the man. Kyrie could see the Major was already an annoying boring factor for Sherlock, standing between him and whatever Sherlock wanted to accomplish here.

"It's a simple enough request, Major," Sherlock told him.

"I've never heard of anything so bizarre," the Major went on.

"You're to give me 24 hours," Sherlock spat, "It's what I've… negotiated."

"Not a second more," Barrymore grumbled. "I may have to comply with this order, but I don't have to like it."

Kyrie never understood why people felt a need to make a useless statement like that. Like a policemen freeing a suspect… 'I have to let you go, but I don't have to like it.' What did it matter?

For Sherlock the matter was already settled anyway, he'd already opened to door, ready to exit the broom closet that had to go for an office.

Barrymore turned away from them in his seat. "I don't know what the hell you expect to find here, anyway," he muttered darkly.

Sherlock opened the door further and turned his body so his frame filled the doorway. "Perhaps the truth," he suggested, looking pointedly at the Major.

"About what?" The Major scoffed and turned in his seat again to glare at Sherlock, his gaze heated with disdain. "Oh, I see. The big coat should have told me."

Sherlock looked rather offended at the mention of his cherished coat.

"You're one of the conspiracy lot, aren't you?"

Kyrie grinned seeing Sherlock roll his eyes at the ludicrousness of that statement.

"Well, then… Go ahead, seek them out," Barrymore said in a condescending tone. "The monsters, the death rays… the aliens."

"Have you got any of those?" Sherlock asked tongue-in-cheek. Barrymore rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Oh, just wondering."

Kyrie grinned. As if!

Barrymore leaned forward, "A couple," he muttered under his breath, "Crash landed here in the '60's. We call them Abbott and Costello." He veered back in his seat, his lips curled in a sneer.

"Really?" Kyrie sneered, "That's your comeback? Abbot and Costello? At least Kal-El would have been funnier. Because, you know… he was actually alien?" Kyrie whispered the last bit as if she told him something that was very secret.

Barrymore just turned away from them. "Good luck Mr Holmes… Mrs Holmes." He spared them no further glance.

Kyrie had to pick up her pace a bit to keep up with Sherlock's long strides as they marched through the brightly lit corridors. She had no idea what he was up to, what his plan was or what he was thinking.

He stopped for a short moment and turned to face her, his brows furrowed. "Kal-El?" he asked.

She grinned at him. "Come on, don't tell me you've never heard of Superman? One of the greatest superheroes ever created?" By the look on Sherlock's face and how he immediately started walking again, she figured Sherlock did not deem knowledge about superheroes important enough to store on his hard drive.

"Red and blue spandex? Red billowing cape? Big bold S on his chest? Tall, dark, piercing blue eyes? Rugged good looks? Unruly dark curls? No? Hmm, too bad. I used to have a big crush on him."

"Tall, dark, piercing blue eyes?" Sherlock smirked, "Mrs Holmes, it seems like you have a type."

Kyrie tried not to laugh out loud. She'd figured his ego was big enough to form those kind of ideas.

"What can I say? I was young and foolish and I was completely smitten with Christopher Reeves. Some would say he was tall, dark and _handsome_ though." She grinned at him and his lips curved up in humoured smile.

Sherlock halted in front of a door that said 'Security only'. Before Kyrie could stop him, he pushed open the door. Deep inside the darkened room, there was a control panel. It was lined with several screens, each showing a different security feed of a different area in the base. There were three swivel chairs. One facing the left section, one facing the right section and one facing the middle.

Sherlock flopped down in the middle chair without saying a single word, so Kyrie decided to sit down in the right one.

"So, what are we doing here exactly?" she asked after a couple of moments of complete silence.

"Conducting an experiment."

"You mean you are?"

"Yes."

She rolled her eyes when he didn't care to elaborate further.

"What kind of experiment, Sherlock?" she asked impatiently.

"I was drugged, Kyrie," he started to explain softly. "My experiences of last night can only be ascribed to the effects of a drug. It took some time and effort last night, but I did realise that what I'd seen could not possibly be true, the fear left my body and the drug took on a different kind of effect."

He cleared his throat and Kyrie could feel her cheeks warm at the thought of what happened between them the night before.

"The question was, how was I drugged and when? Save for yesterday morning, we'd all been together. You, me, John and Henry. I and Henry both saw the hound, you and John did not. So what was different?"

Kyrie thought back to the previous day, tried to recall what had happened. But for some reason her mind kept drifting to the moment earlier this day, to when Sherlock had examined John's empty coffee cup.

"You did something with his coffee, didn't you?" she asked suspiciously. Sherlock nodded approvingly.

"Yes. I had a theory. The sugar, Henry's sugar. Last night, we all had coffee, except for you because you for some reason detest coffee. I had sugar, Henry had sugar. John did not. Since you didn't drink anything, you also had no sugar."

"You drugged John's coffee this morning with Henry's sugar… Awesome," Kyrie said sarcastically, "And why exactly did you think that would be a good idea?"

"I need to conduct an experiment to see what effect seeing the 'hound' has on an average mind. You don't drink coffee."

Kyrie rolled her eyes. "I drink tea. With sugar."

"I had easier access to coffee. Wait, you do?" Sherlock looked at her in surprise. "You drink your tea with sugar?"

"Yeah, never noticed?"

Sherlock didn't reply to that. For a moment they just stared at the screens until John's head suddenly appeared on one of them. He was wandering about in dimly lit room, an empty lab. Sherlock's eyes were glued to the screens, but Kyrie had something on her mind that had been needling for a good part of the day.

"Sherlock?" she asked softly.

"Yes?" he said while not breaking his focus on the screen that showed John.

"Earlier when you told John you only have one friend…"

"Yes?"

"Did you mean that?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because… we are not really married. It's not real. So, if I am not your friend, as you so clearly stated… but I'm also not really your wife… then what am I? To you, I mean?"

Even though Sherlock was still facing the screens, Kyrie knew he was no longer looking. He was pondering her question. "Can I have your left hand, please?" he asked after some time. She stared at his left hand that he extended to her before she gingerly placed her hand in his.

Slowly, gently, his fingers curled around hers and he lifted her hand for her to see. He then turned their hands so she was looking at his. The one thing their hands had in common, was a wedding ring.

"Do you see rings on these hands? 'Cause I do," he stated simply, "I also recall saying 'I do' at some point, but I could be wrong. Also, I'm pretty sure there's a marriage register somewhere with our names on it. We are married, Kyrie, legally and bindingly. The circumstances that led to our marriage are irrelevant. The marriage can only be dissolved by a divorce. A real divorce, but only when it's safe. We _are_ married, therefore, you are my wife."

Kyrie was quiet for a moment. A bit surprised to learn that, although their marriage was based on a threat and fear, not love, he did consider it to be… real. At least real enough in some abstract way.

"But not your friend?" she asked softly.

He didn't answer her right away, but carefully monitored the screen. John had just left the through a doorway.

"Perhaps, in a way," he finally said, though he sounded a bit distracted. Kyrie sighed in defeat, knowing she would not get anything else out of him on this subject. She too reverted her gaze to the screens. The only thing she could do was wait and see what Sherlock was up to next.

The door that John had disappeared through a few moments ago just opened and John emerged again. Immediately Sherlock hit a button on the control panel, activating a large standing arc light just to John's right. Within a moment's notice, nine bright bulbs blasted a blinding light straight into his eyes. John squinted his eyes shut, raised his hands to defend himself from the visual attack on his eyes and grimaced in pain. "Oh God! Ow!" they could hear him exclaim.

Kyrie put a hand in front of her mouth, seeing her friend stumble around, his own vision blanked out by the arc lights. He must feel as disoriented as someone who'd just started directly in the sun for too long.

As if that wasn't enough, Sherlock hit a second button on the control panel, causing a loud insistent alarm to start blaring into the room. Poor John became even more disoriented than he already was, stumbling from the left to the right, covering his ears. He was completely overwhelmed by the bright lights, lack of visions and the hair raising noise!

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" she gasped.

"Stressing his body," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, "I'm disorienting him and putting his body in a state of stress. He now can no longer trust his senses, making him more susceptible."

"To what?" Kyrie asked while John stumbled through the area, trying to reach the other side of the lab. Sherlock hit another key so when John tried to leave using the ID card, his access was denied. Several looks crossed his face, varying from annoyance to disbelief and fear.

Kyrie looked on, helpless, as Sherlock pushed the buttons and created a terrifying nightmare for his best friend. First he drowned him in light and noise, now he drowned him in darkness and deafening silence. If his erratic movements and his eyes nervously darting around were anything to go by, John was getting more and more effected by the drug. He walked around, trying to get some vision back using a flash light. It didn't seem to help him much as he was still stumbling on his feet.

Suddenly John focused his attention to a row of large cages, their contents obscured from view with white sheets. John slowly walked to one of the cages and quickly pulled the sheet back. The cage was empty. He then continued to the next cage and pulled the sheet up. Also empty. The moment John pulled up the sheet of the third cage, a monkey inside flung itself towards him, screaming in a high pitch, grabbing the bars.

John quickly dropped the sheet back over the cage and stumbled back, breathing heavily. He shakily walked to the last cage, his eyes dropping to the bottom of the bars. The sheet had been pushed back a bit, revealing that the door was not locked… it was slightly ajar. The bottom had been bent in such a way, that it betrayed that whatever had done it, had been incredibly strong.

Sherlock pulled a black recorder from his coat, held it up to a microphone, pressed another button and soon even Kyrie jumped in her seat by the menacing growl that was sent over the speaker into the room.

From there on John seemed to spiral down in a fit of panic. The readers still wouldn't accept his ID card. He looked like he desperately wanted to escape, but Sherlock held him trapped there.

"Sherlock, enough, please," Kyrie pleaded with him, "Loot at him, he is absolutely terrified."

"Not yet."

John's hands were now trembling violently as he tried to swipe his ID card against the unyielding reader. He pulled out his mobile and hit a speed dial.

Soon after Sherlock's phone started ringing, but he didn't answer it.

In a desperate attempt to escape the unseen threat, John hurried towards a side door in the lab. Before he could escape, there was a distinctive sound of claws skittering against the floor tiles.

Sherlock played a barrage of menacing and threatening sounds, varying from claws trotting across the floor, to vicious snarling and savage growls. John looked completely out of it. His eyes darted around wildly as he tried to make a break for the cages. He lost his footing, skidded over the floor before he hurled himself inside one of the empty cases, slamming the door shut and bolting it. With trembling hands he reached through the bars to pull down the sheet over the cage.

It was quite bizarre, seeing her friend running around the lab in a delirious daze, scared out of his wits, while nothing was really there. Sherlock pushed himself back in his chair and put up his legs to rest his feet on the desk, his thighs lightly brushing against Kyrie's legs.

Kyrie, however, abruptly shoved back her chair and stood up.

"Sherlock, whatever you want to find out with this experiment, you've got until I reach the lab and help John. ID card please."

She didn't ask for it, she demanded it and held out her hand. She hoped that the look in her eyes sufficiently conveyed that he would be in a world of pain if he didn't comply with her.

Sherlock glared at her, but handed her the ID card anyway. "At least don't run, give me time to wrap this up properly."

She nodded curtly and marched out of the room. The moment she closed the door behind her, she could hear Sherlock's phone ring again. This time he did pick up.

To cater to Sherlock's wish, Kyrie didn't run, but she didn't mosey down the hallways either. When she reached the entrance to the lab where John was currently hiding, she got access the moment she swiped the card. She quickly entered the lab and turned on the lights. She carefully walked towards the cages, John should be cowering in the last one.

"It's here…" she could hear his muffled whisper. With a sigh she pulled up the sheet and found John blinking up at her in confusion.

"John, you okay?" Kyrie quickly opened the door and entered the cage. She gently placed her hand on his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Fucking hell!" John cried out, still reeling from the grips of fear. He breathed out a shaky sigh and pulled himself up by the bars, tumbling out of the cage as fast as his body would allow him. Kyrie followed him quickly.

"It was the hound, Kyrie. It was here," he said shoving his phone back in his pocket with little regard to the fact that he suddenly disconnected his call with Sherlock. "I swear, Kyrie, it was here! It must…" He looked around the lab frantically, but as it was now again bathing in light, it was apparent no enormous monster was lurking around somewhere.

"Did… did… did you see it?" he asked, his voice sounding oddly falsetto. He turned around looking quite jittery and unsteady. "It must have run right past you. You must have seen it!"

Approaching footsteps made them both look up. It was Sherlock carrying an expression on his face that looked suspiciously guilty. He held out his hand trying to placate John.

"It's all right. It's okay now. We are here."

John's eyes flared open, so did his nostrils and his lips quivered. "NO IT'S NOT! IT'S NOT OKAY!" Spit flew from his mouth as he cried out, his body shaking violently. "I saw it. I was wrong!"

Kyrie glared at Sherlock who just shrugged his shoulders a bit. "Hmm. Well, let's not jump to conclusions."

"What?" John asked bewildered.

"What did you see?" Sherlock immediately changed the subject.

"I told you… I saw the hound –"

"Huge. Red eyes?" Sherlock asked, interrupting him.

"Yes," John breathed.

"Glowing?"

"Yeah."

"No," Sherlock countered with a smug smile.

"What?"

"I made up the bit about glowing. You saw what you expected to see because I _told_ you. You have been drugged. We have _all_ been drugged."

"Drugged?" John asked, "I – I don't understand, Sherlock, what do you mean… drugged?"

"Come on… Can you walk?"

"'Course I can walk!" John said, his voice still trembling. Despite his determined claim, Kyrie felt that Sherlock's question was valid.

"What now, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Time to lay this ghost," he stated simply and turned around to leave, his mind set on his next objective.

Both John and Kyrie wordlessly followed him at a slightly slower pace while she had wrapped her arm around him for comfort and a bit of mental support.


	22. Boost me, drug me, kiss me

**A/N Fine... Here's another one! I just HAD to post this one too! Sherlock really can be such a callous, uncaring prick! I also found out my acount was set to 'moderate' Guest reviews. I disabled that option, so... if all works well, Guest reviews should now automatically be accepted. Hopefully Fanfiction doesn't 'eat' more reviews. Still grumpy that my story shows to have 11 reviews while only having 5 visible. Haha I'm so vain!**

Both John and Kyrie wordlessly followed him at a slightly slower pace while she had wrapped her arm around him for comfort and a bit of mental support.

Now that Sherlock had ascertained his friend was okay, he no longer seemed worried about the mental state of his friend. With determination evident in every step he took, he just cruised down the hallways until he waltzed into a small lab where a woman briefly looked up in surprise. She calmed down the moment she recognised the person who just came breezing inside.

"Oh. Back again?" she asked in mild interest. "What's on your mind this time? Who's that?" She furrowed her brows asking that last question when she noticed Kyrie coming into the lab after Sherlock.

"My wife, that's about all you need to know about her. As for what's on my mind? Murder, Dr Stapleton. Refined, cold-blooded murder."

Without missing a beat, Sherlock flipped the light switch near the door, turning off the light.

The weak lighting falling in from the window of the end at the room, was just enough to show that the rabbit was glowing bright green! Kyrie gasped, seeing the oddity and Sherlock flipped the switch again, turning the lights back on.

"Bluebell, I presume?" Kyrie asked curious. Sherlock smiled unpleasantly at Dr Stapleton. "Will you tell little Kirsty what happened to little Blueball? Or shall I?"

Dr Stapleton sighed in a resigned manner. "Okay. What do you want?" she asked, casting a wary glance on him.

"Can I borrow your microscope?"

Stapleton arched a brow at him, but didn't comment. She motioned them to follow her as she guided them to a different lab where Sherlock had a bit more room to go about his business. He wasted no time in settling himself at one of the benches where he found a large microscope that was set up and ready for him to use.

John sat down on a stool near a desk that was off to the side a bit. Kyrie joined him, sitting down on a stool next to him and soothingly started to rub his back. John still looked quite peaky and he was trembling violently. He gave her a small smile that quickly dropped from his face, as he kind off blanked out on her. He used his hand to keep his head propped up while Kyrie gently tried to sooth him using gentle motions.

She looked at Sherlock who really didn't seem happy with what he was seeing. He wordlessly crushed a white grainy substance into smaller pieces, using a little hammer and he put a small amount of the powdery result on a glass slide.

At first it seemed as though everyone had come to a silent agreement to not disturb Sherlock as he was focussed on his research. It was quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

Only the sound of Sherlock shifting his position could be heard now and then. He seemed to vary between sitting with his back turned to the microscope, fingers steepled in front of his face, his eyes closed in thought, and gazing into the microscope. The latter would at some point cause Sherlock to scowl at the contents on the glass side he was examining. Sometimes he switched things up by scribbling chemical formulae onto the desk with different coloured marker pens.

Well, they looked like chemical formulae to Kyrie at least. For all intents and purposes, it could be Japanese prose and she still wouldn't know the difference. She liked the colours though.

After they had quite some time in silence, Dr Stapleton went to stand next to John, a slightly worried look on her face as she took in his appearance. "Are you sure you are okay? You look very peaky," she asked him, voicing Kyrie's exact thoughts.

"No, I'm all right," he said with a slight smile, shaking his head a bit. He still sounded pretty far out of it though.

Kyrie just hoped he wouldn't suffer similar side effects to the drug as Sherlock had been experiencing. If he did... things had a potential of becoming really weird... and awkward.

"It was the GFP gene from a jellyfish, in case you are interested."

"What?"

"In the rabbits."

"Hmm, right. Yes."

"Aeqoria Victoria, if you really want to know."

He obviously wasn't interested but Stapleton seemed keen on sharing the info anyway.

"Like sea sparkle?" Kyrie asked hopefully.

Stapleton grimaced a bit. "Not really, no. But… I get why you'd think that."

"Oh," Kyrie said disappointed.

"Why did you do it though?" John asked.

"Why not? We don't ask questions like that here. It isn't done."

"Interesting work ethics," Kyrie muttered softly earning her one of John's humoured smirks. Sherlock on the other hand had another dark scowl on his face that only seemed to grow darker with each slide he examined under the microscope.

"There was a mix-up, anyway. My daughter ended up with one of the lab specimens, so poor Bluebell had to go.

John snorted. "Your compassion's overwhelming."

"I know," Stapleton remarked dryly, "I hate myself sometimes."

"So, come on then. You can trust me. I'm a doctor. What else have you got hidden away up here?"

Dr Stapleton sighed deeply, as if she was about to engage in a discussion she'd already had like a thousand times before. "Listen, if you can imagine it, someone is probably doing it somewhere. Of course they are."

"And cloning?"

"Yes, of course. Dolly the Sheep, remember?"

"Human cloning?"

"Why not?"

"What about animals?" Kyrie asked. "Not sheep… big animals. With claws and teeth and … red eyes."

"Size isn't a problem. Not at all. The only limits are ethics and the law and both those things can be… very flexible –"

"Comforting thought," Kyrie softly said.

"But not here, though. Not at Baskerville."

Suddenly Sherlock got up from his seat and in a flurry of motions he snatched the last slide out from under the microscope and hurled it against the wall. He was livid!

He really didn't handle losing very well. Losing Mysterium? Throw all the cards through the room. Losing Cluedo? Flip over the table. Losing Monopoly? Now that was a game Sherlock _really_ hated because it was a game of chance decided by the roll of a dice, not strategic thinking. Still, losing Monopoly? Just burn all the pieces to a crisp with a torch. Can't find the desired evidence under a microscope? Throw the slides against the wall… He could be such a kid.

Kyrie mentally braced herself for his tantrum.

"It's not there!" he yelled in outrage.

And there it was.

John cursed a couple of times as Sherlock's sudden outburst agitated his already frayed nerves some more.

"Nothing there! Doesn't make any sense!" Sherlock started to pace up and down the lab.

Stapleton sent him a curious look. "What were you expecting to find, anyway?"

"A drug, of course! There has to be a drug – a hallucinogenic or a deliriant of some kind. There's no trace of anything in the sugar!"

"Sugar?" John asked surprised.

"The sugar, yes. It's a simple process of elimination. I saw the hound – saw it as my imagination expected me to see it…"

"Didn't know you had one," Kyrie said, winking at John.

Sherlock scowled at her. "I saw it as a genetically engineered monster. But I knew I couldn't believe the evidence of my own eyes. So, there were seven possible reasons for it, the most possible being narcotics. Henry Knight – he saw it too but you didn't, John. You didn't see it and neither did Kyrie. Now, we have eaten and drunk exactly the same things since we got to Grimpen, save maybe for Kyrie… apart from one thing… you don't take sugar in your coffee," Sherlock explained in a flurry of motions with his arms and hands as he liked to do to illustrate a point or accentuate certain words.

"I see. So…" John said, obviously not seeing it at all.

"So, I took it from Henry's kitchen… his sugar." Sherlock glared down at the microscope in disgust as if it was personally offending him. "It's perfectly all right," he spat out.

"Then, maybe it's not a drug?"

"Oh, it was a drug all right," Kyrie muttered, "Did you not see him last night? It was like he was having a bad trip!"

"Thank you, Kyrie," Sherlock said, calming down a bit, though just a bit. "It really has to be drug. There's no other plausible explanation."

"Why?"

"Side effects," he muttered darkly as he sat down on the stool again, burying his head in his hands, clenching his eyes shut. After a brief moment he lowered his hands a little, but kept his head bowed and his eyes closed.

"But how did it get into our systems. How?"

A deep sigh, then he slowly raised his head, still keeping his eyes closed in deep concentration.

"There has to be something…" he muttered, losing himself in his train of thought. Kyrie loved this part. She'd seen him use his 'Mind Palace' a few times. It really was fascinating to watch.

"Something… ah, something…" His eyes flew open. "Something buried deep. Very deep. I may need assistance with this one. It's buried, too deep." He took a sharp breath through his nose, turned on the stool and imperiously pointed his finger at Stapleton.

"You, get out," he ordered.

"What?" she asked confused.

"Get out. I need to go to my Mind Palace."

Kyrie and John looked at each other. Kyrie smiled understandingly at John's long-suffering look.

"Your what?" Stapleton asked incredulously, but Sherlock had already turned his head away again. John stood up, so did Kyrie, and he picked up his jacket.

"He's not gonna be doing much talking for a while. We may as well go and leave him to it."

"His what?" Stapleton asked John this time as they headed for the door.

"Not you, Kyrie, please stay," Sherlock bid her right before she wanted to follow John out of the lab. She and John exchanged brief looks with each other before they both shrugged. She closed the door after him, muting the sound of him right as he started to explain to Stapleton what the hell a 'Mind Palace' was.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Kyrie asked curiously.

"It's buried too deep," he said solemnly, slowly raising himself from the stool. "The knowledge is there, but my Mind Palace is a vast place. Given time, I can find anything stored there. All I need is time and the right path. At the moment time is not something I have a lot of. I need to save time. And I know of only one way to do that." He moved slowly until he was standing right in front of her.

"I need to kiss you," he stated so matter-of-factly that Kyrie started to laugh. When there was no teasing glint in his eyes and no teasing smirk on his lips, she abruptly stopped laughing.

"Wait, are you serious?" she asked nervously.

"Yes," Sherlock softly said, taking one step closer. Kyrie promptly responded by taking a step back.

"No."

He furrowed his brows in surprise. "Why not?" he asked and Kyrie could see in his eyes he was genuinely confused. Oh Lord… this was going to be even more awkward than having that one conversation with your kid… about the birds and the bloody bees.

"Sherlock," she sighed in exasperation, "Look, I know you think and feel differently than the rest of us. I know your ideas about emotions and love. For you, a kiss would be just a way to improve your thinking process. Yes?"

"Yes. But that's a good thing," he defended himself, "I've never found something so potent that brings me so much…. Clarity! Apart from _drugs_."

"You are not going to make this easy for me, are you?" she muttered.

"Why are you being so difficult about this?" Sherlock asked, annoyance giving his voice a tinge of sharpness. "We've kissed before."

Kyrie closed her eyes and she could feel her cheeks getting hot.

"Yes, three times," she agreed softly, "The first time was to fool Gerulf, the second time you were conducting a bloody experiment on me and the third time, last night, you were doped on drugs. They were not romantic kisses… as kisses tend to be. Should be."

Sherlock seemed to ponder her words, but said nothing, yet.

"I know you feel nothing emotional when you kiss me, but for me it doesn't work like that. For me, emotion _is_ involved, Sherlock. I can't let you kiss me every time you think you need a bit of a boost in your thinking process, because every time you do, _I_ run the risk of forming an even stronger emotional attachment to you that you will never reciprocate. What do you think it will be like for me, if _that_ happens and our marriage has served its purpose? I know where it would leave you, but do you know where it would leave me?"

When Sherlock's mouth dropped open a bit and then he closed it again, Kyrie knew that some part of him did understand what she was getting at.

"I see," he said, seriously, but with no sign of mockery or disdain as he tended to show when the subject turned to something as trivial as emotions. "You fear that by frequent, _intimacy_ , your ability to keep your emotions separate from this marriage… will be compromised."

Kyrie smiled a bit at his conclusion. "I think that's what I just told you, yes."

"I don't want you to be put into a situation in which I might unintentionally cause you to get hurt… but…" Sherlock stopped, looking at her intently. "Don't you think that Henry, after 20 years, deserves to know the truth? Give him a chance to put his demons to rest?"

"Of course I do!" she cried out, "I'm not unfeeling, I'm not the cruel one in this room…" Kyrie looked away, she hadn't quite meant the last words as they had sounded. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "I did not mean it that way. You are not cruel by nature, but you _can_ be quite ruthless. Because winning The Game, solving The Puzzle, will always be more important to you than anything else." And with anything else, Kyrie meant her heart. "Can you not solve this without…?" Kyrie asked hopefully.

"Of course I can," he scoffed, though without his usual bluntness, "Just not as quick. There's, unfortunately, a time frame."

Kyrie closed her eyes and took a deep breath, steadying herself, armouring herself, before she finally nodded in agreement.

"Are you sure?" he asked softly, suddenly sounding a bit hesitant as though he just now realised what he was asking of her. She nodded again, keeping her eyes closed, not wanting to look into his eyes and fall.

She didn't need to have her eyes open, to sense his face was inching closer.

"Kyrie, please, open your eyes," he pleaded.

"You are asking a bit much, Mr Holmes," she whispered against his lips.

"I know, Mrs Holmes," he whispered back. Her eyes flew open briefly, catching a hint of gold and blue, his eyes searching hers, before his lips claimed hers and her eyes fluttered closed again.

It was heaven and it was hell at the same time. His lips were soft and tender but there was an impatient edge to them that made her realise he was easing her into the moment, until he could take what he needed. She felt his hands cupping her face when he gently tilted her head to a slant so that her mouth was firmly against his and then he kissed her. Her lips parted under his when he applied a bit more pressure giving him entrance to her mouth.

All rational thought scattered from her brain. Last night she had been in control, she'd been able to stop the heated kiss before it could escalate. Now, all she could do was to wait helplessly until Sherlock had drawn from her what he needed. As the rational part of her brain shut down, the sensory part of her brain took over, goading her to snake her arms around his shoulders, to cling to him for support and to press herself closer. She could feel his fingers threading through her hair, gently scraping at her scalp to pull her closer to him still. She raised herself on her toes to give and receive better access and she felt his arm curl around her waist to support her.

After what seemed like an eternity and a split second at the same time, Sherlock suddenly pulled back with a small gasp.

"Liberty, Indiana, H.O.U.N.D," he whispered, "Thank you, Kyrie. Let's go!"

He quickly grabbed his coat and without sparing her a second glance, he left the lab to catch up with John and Dr Stapleton. He left in such a hurry that he was no longer there when Kyrie used the sleeve of her coat to wipe away a few errand tears. Now that he had the knowledge he wanted, she doubted he would have cared if he _had_ seen them.


	23. Love is a rebellious bird

**A/N Hello my lovely readers and followers. As it turns out, Fanfiction doesn't hate me. It hates everyone! Apparently there have been problems with reviews all over the website for the last few days. To top that off, I'm also no longer getting e-mail notifications. So, even though I can see I'm getting new reviews, there's no way for me to actually read the reviews. All I can do is wait till this is fixed and I promise I will get back to you then.**

 **Judygrasham. I tried to sit down and add a bit of an extra scene from Sherlock's POV set right after his little tiff with John. Unfortunately, he refuses to cooperate. He mocks me with a smile and only says... 'Wouldn't you like to know'. I think it's revenge because he knows what I have in store for him. And he's not happy about it. I hope it's not a deal breaker.**

 **Extra disclaimer. The fighting and singing scene is heavily inspired by a scene from Jude Deveraux' 'Mount Laurel' (one of my favourite romance novels during my teens) As soon as I realised that Kyrie sings opera, I knew I would eventually have to use this scene.**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

SSS

Giving herself a moment, Kyrie waited a while before she went after him. With no idea where Sherlock might want to go next, she figured a room with a computer would seem like a good place to start. She retraced her steps through the hallways, trying to find the security room. Okay so there was the lab that John had been hiding in, that meant that if she would follow the next hall way, she'd find the security room to her right.

When she reached the security room, she found it to be empty, but judging from one of the screens that seemed to be stuck on a log in screen, they'd been here. Kyrie sighed and continued on her way, until she finally found all three of them huddled together in Major Barrymore's office, all staring at the computer screen, their faces showing similar looks of disgust and horror.

Her soft knock at the door made John and Dr Stapleton jump a bit. John frowned the moment his eyes settled on her. She quickly looked away.

"Find anything yet?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, hunched over the desk, leaning on his hands and still staring at the screen. "We have found the hound. Project H.O.U.N.D. to be exact. The letters stand for the names of the scientists involved. They were working on a new deliriant drug which rendered its users incredibly suggestible.

The intended use, of course, was to use it as an anti-personnel weapon to totally disorientate the enemy using fear and stimulus. They had to shut it down though and they hid it away in 1986."

"Because of what it did to the subjects they tested it on," Dr Stapleton said.

"And what they did to others. There were side effects. And prolonged exposure drove them insane. Made them almost uncontrollably aggressive."

"That's horrible!" Kyrie couldn't wrap her head about the inhumanity of it all.

"It is," John agreed with her, "So, someone's been doing it again. Carrying on the experiments."

"Attempting to refine it, perhaps," Sherlock said, "For the last twenty years, trying to get rid of the side effects but ending up substituting them for other… side effects."

"Who?" Dr Stapleton questioned.

John nodded at the screen, "Those names, mean anything to you?" He directed his gaze at Dr Stapleton.

"No, not a thing," she replied while studying the names of the project leaders.

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Five principal scientists, twenty years ago," he seemed to say more to himself than anyone else in the room. He pulled up a photograph of the Project H.O.U.N.D. team and gazed intently at each individual.

"Maybe our friend's somewhere in the back of the picture?" he suggested to himself, his eyes darting over the screen, "Someone who was old enough to be there at the time of the experiments in 1986…"

Sherlock's eyes suddenly paused on a face in the back. In the reflection of the computer screen, Kyrie saw his eyes widen in realisation. "Maybe somebody who says 'cell phone' because of time spent in America," he turned to look at John. "You remember, John?"

"Mm-hm," John nodded.

"He gave us his 'cell phone' number in case we needed him," Sherlock clarified.

"Someone here?" Dr Stapleton asked, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder to have a closer look at the photograph. "Oh my God," she suddenly exclaimed. "Bob Frankland! But, Bob doesn't even work on… I mean, he's a virologist. This was _chemical_ warfare!"

"It's where he started though. And over the years, he's never lost the certainty, the obsession that the drug really could work. If he could just perfect it. Nice of him to give us his number."

Sherlock, still leaning on his hands, reached into his pocket to take out a business card. "Let's arrange a little meaning," he said and he pushed himself away from the desk and turned away. At that moment John's phone started ringing. He fished it out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID. The confused frown revealing he had no idea who could be calling him at this hour. He answered it anyway.

"Hello?" he said. Sherlock looked at him intently.

"Who's this?" he asked. The look in Sherlock's eyes intensified. Kyrie found it curious too. Why hadn't the caller immediately identified themselves? Suddenly John turned around to face Sherlock, his hand partially covering his phone. "It's Louise Mortimer," he said.

Kyrie furrowed her brows in surprise. Henry's therapist? What could she want at this hour?

"Louise, what's wrong?" John listened to the woman on the other end of the line and the look on his face changed from shock surprise to horror and he started pacing. "What?" he asked. "Where, where are you?"

John turned around again, sending Sherlock a meaningful look. Sherlock immediately got out his own phone.

"Stay there. We'll get someone to you, okay?" John lowered his phone and looked at it in thought.

"Henry?" Sherlock immediately guessed.

"He's attacked her," John said solemnly.

"Gone?"

"Mm," John said as he put his phone away.

Sherlock hit a speed dial on his own. "There's only one place he'll go to," he explained quickly, "Back to where it all started… Lestrade," Sherlock said when he got the DI on the phone, "Get to the Hollow… Dewer's Hollow, now. And bring a gun."

SSS

As Sherlock drove them in the direction of Dewer's Hollow at break neck speed, Kyrie had a request for him.

"Sherlock, please stop the car. I'd like to get back to the inn. It's just a small distance, I can walk," she said with a clipped voice. John turned his head slightly in surprise, but he didn't turn around all the way to look at her. Instead, he looked at Sherlock.

"Kyrie, we are in a bit of a hurry. We need to get to Dewer's Hollow and help Henry," he said deflecting her request.

She clenched her jaw. After all that had happened the night before, his little experiment on John and using her as some kind of stimulant, with almost complete disregard to her reservations… Kyrie did not feel like traipsing behind them over the moors. "You owe me this much at least, Holmes."

If either John or Sherlock were surprised to hear her call him by his last name, they didn't let it show. Kyrie briefly locked eyes with him through the rear view mirror in the car and he nodded slightly at her before bringing the car to a sudden stop.

"Jeez, Sherlock!" John cried out, "Bit of warning next time?" he grumbled. Sherlock didn't reply, his eyes followed Kyrie as she opened the door and climbed out of the car.

"Text me when you're back at the inn," he told her, his eyes back on the road again.

"Fine," she said, but immediately regretted the harshness of her tone. "Be safe, okay?" she asked. He didn't reply. "Yeah, of course. You know us," John answered for the both of him with a grimace that she could just make out in the last few rays of sunlight.

"That's what I'm afraid of," she said with a small smile in an attempt at a joke. She then closed the door of the car and Sherlock quickly drove away.

She watched them go and saw the car shrinking away from her view, until she was staring at an empty road. She shivered in the evening air, even though she wasn't really cold.

With a sigh Kyrie started to walk back to Grimpen Village, grateful she was now momentarily freed of Sherlock's overbearing presence.

She felt so many conflicting emotions when it came to him, it could be very exhausting. Most of the time she loved him and was too acutely aware of it. Other times she absolutely detested him, loathed him, until he would give her one of his rare smiles making her smile fondly back at him. He irritated her, annoyed her, thrilled her, excited her, exasperated her… moved her. He was pretty intense, no matter what mood he was in. Even when bored, he wasn't just bored, he was intensely bored.

When her phone started to ring, she knew exactly who was calling her.

"Good evening, My," she greeted her brother-in-law, "Why doesn't your call surprise me?"

"Just trying to meet expectations, sister dear," she heard him drawl, "So, Sherlock went off gallivanting anyway. With John of course. And now Lestrade as well, even though I had given him a _different_ assignment."

"Oh, please, My" she said, "You can't expect a Scotland Yard DI to babysit when there's actual work to be done. You know, arrests to be made?"

"That doesn't mean I approve of you wandering the _W_ _uthering_ _H_ _eights_ by yourself."

"That's cute."

"Thank you, I thought it was rather clever myself. Anyway, according to my sources, Gerulf is still conniving with his new friend. He does seem to have toned down his surveillance around you, so I doubt his men tracked you down to Dartmoor. That doesn't mean we can sit back and relax though. We still need to be vigilant."

"I'll leave that up to you, if you don't mind, My. After all, you have the means for it."

"Very well… Tell Sherlock… _The stage is set_. Good night, sister dear."

With those puzzling words, Mycroft ended the call, leaving Kyrie to wonder what those words might mean.

Darkness had long set in and Sherlock still hadn't returned yet. At his request, she'd sent him a text alerting him of her arrival at the inn. He had not yet sent a reply. Kyrie was sitting in one of the armchairs in the small dining room, staring into the flames, trying to calm her restless soul.

There was a storm brewing inside of her, of pent up emotion she longed to get out of her system. Problem at hand, she was in the dining room of a small local inn in Dartmoor, not back in Baker Street where she could just blissfully let it rip.

Maybe she should have stayed outside longer… found herself a nice lonely hill top where she could have just sung to her hearts content. She chuckled as she imagined herself climbing the hills a la Maria von Trapp from the Sound of Music.

But, she was here, in the dining room, where people were no longer eating but had turned to spirits rather than sustenance. The small area had turned into something of a side room for the pub.

All the way on the other end in the pub, a small argument had broken out. From what Kyrie could see, it had started with two men, both slightly swaying on their feet, both accusing the other for... something. Then one of them pounced on the other, both of them knocking into a third… Then a chair crashed to the floor and a fourth started to goad them on. "Fight, fight, fight!"

Kyrie pinched the bridge of her nose with a heavy sigh and she clenched her eyes shut. She could already feel the beginnings of a headache coming up.

A furious Gary threw himself into the mix and he tried to pull the fighters apart. Billy looked on nervously as a series of serious punches were thrown and Gary got caught up in the fight himself. After that, it was all chaos as a real brawl began, complete with fists flying and chairs sailing through the air.

Kyrie had never seen a fight like this, but honestly, with all the testosterone wafting through the air, it felt like she was back at school. Boys would be boys, men would be men, strutting around and having a pissing contest.

At some point, Kyrie noticed the familiar faces of Sherlock, John and Greg Lestrade appear at the back. Sherlock had a mildly annoyed look on his face as he watched the brawling men, there was no way to get around them unscathed. John looked aghast, Greg looked angry and when Kyrie noticed Henry there as well… he just seemed to look on in a bit of a daze, as usual.

Kyrie half hoped that Greg would pull his gun and fire a few warning shots to draw the attention of the fighters. Unfortunately, he did no such thing. He, like Gary, thought he could physically break up the fight by himself. He thought wrong. John looked tempted to jump into the fray as well, but after a long hard look he seemed to decide against it. Smart man.

That moment, Kyrie had just about had enough of male ego for one day. Slowly she raised herself from the armchair and went to stand, her legs wide. How did you draw the attention of loud boys? Be louder, that's how.

Kyrie took a deep, deep breath, filling her lungs, her entire being, with oxygen in the way she'd been trained to do. She waited for about a heartbeat and then she hit a note… a high, clear note. And very loud.

That seemed to draw the attention of the fighters that were closest to her. They paused, turned their heads and blinked in surprise, their fists stilling in the air.

Kyrie held the note and soon more people began to look at her and stopped their fighting. They even tapped other fighters on their shoulders to draw their attention too. Greg straightened himself up and looked at her with a look of utter shock on his face as he extended his arm to pull Gary upright. Henry stared at her, his mouth agape, as if he was seeing water burn. Judging the look on John's face, she'd managed to surprise him yet again. Sherlock stared at her with wide eyes, but as usual, other than that his face betrayed nothing.

"Damn," Billy said as he went to stand next to Gary, watching her as she held that one single note. And by Jupiter, she held that note! Another man let go of the hair of someone else he was pummelling, even going as far as to dust off the man's shoulder as he looked at her.

By now, Kyrie had everyone's attention and she continued holding the note. And holding it. And holding it. Tears were pricking in her eyes and eventually ran down her face, mingling with her sweat.

Her lungs emptied of oxygen, but she still held the note. She drew air from every part of her body… from her legs, her arms, her fingertips, her toes, even from the ends of her hair. She depleted everything she had while people simply stared at her. One, two, three, four. She held it.

Her backbone was touching her navel, but still she held that note.

At long, long last she spread her arms wide and balled her hands into fists. Her body hurt, every muscle ached, but she didn't let go of that note. She shook her head, then put her head back and then, abruptly, she brought her fists together, bent her elbows, brought her fists to her forehead and down! She stopped.

For a moment she thought she might collapse, but she gasped for air like a person drowning, trying to get the oxygen flow going again.

Someone started clapping and soon another one followed. It didn't take long before the entire crowd was applauding her and she heard wolf's whistles all around.

Kyrie recovered herself and she looked over the heads of the men who'd been at each other's throats just moments ago, to where Sherlock stood with John and Henry at the back. Their eyes were wide with awe and Kyrie gave Sherlock the smuggest smile she could manage. He smiled back, then put one hand in front of him, one in his back, and bowed deeply. When he straightened, she smirked at him.

The four men made their way to where she was still standing.

"Hey Kyrie," Greg said with a grin, "I think you shattered a few glasses back there."

She grinned back at him and lightly shrugged her shoulders. "It's been known to happen," she replied casually.

"What, really?" John asked, looking at her as though he was seeing her, really seeing her, for the first time.

"It was an experiment," she defended herself.

"Oh, I bet," Greg said dryly.

"You… you can really beak glass… with your voice?" Henry stammered.

"Oh, all right," Kyrie admitted, "It was luck, okay? It took 20 damn tries and just as many crystal glasses to find that one glass I could shatter. 20 tries at a frequency of 556 hertz at a 105 decibels," she ended smugly.

John guffawed but Sherlock seemed a bit annoyed. "Not really a useful skill, is it? Shattering glass with your voice," he muttered under his breath.

Greg erupted with a deep rumbling laughter and he hit Sherlock squarely between his shoulder blades. "Someone is a bit jealous, eh?" he said on a laugh and he winked at Kyrie.

"So, what happened on your end?" she asked and immediately they seemed to want to tell her about their adventure all at once. Well, apart from Sherlock obviously. The story was a bit of a jumbling mess, with three story tellers vying for her attention, but in the end she got the gist of it.

The drug had been dispersed in the Hollow with cleverly placed pressure pads. So the fog in the Hollow was actually the drug. Bob Frankland at some point turned up. There had been a fight. There may or may not have been a real hound, she wasn't exactly clear on that... But, Sherlock had solved the case.

Unfortunately, in an attempt to escape, Bob had managed to get himself blown up in the minefield surrounding Baskerville. She didn't know that man from Adam, but she was very much appalled at his disregard for human life and she felt sorry that he had, though be it in death, escaped justice.

The moment John told they arrived just in time to prevent Henry from harming himself, Kyrie became rather thoughtful, realising that if she'd made a different decision... Henry might not even be here right now. And now that Henry knew he wasn't crazy and never had been in the first place, Kyrie noticed a sparkle in his eyes that had not been there before. She was glad for him.

Suddenly Billy appeared in front of them, or her actually, and he poked her with his finger. Kyrie arched her brow at him in surprise and the others with her seemed just as stunned at this weird behaviour.

"Are you real?" Billy blurted out, "I've never heard a voice like that, how about you Gary?" he asked as Gary suddenly appeared right behind him. "Not ever!" And with those words Gary disappeared from view again.

"Can you sing, with that voice?"

Kyrie rolled her eyes, John and Greg chuckled at each other. Henry looked interested however.

"You can, must be... a voice like that?" Henry piped in.

"So, what do you say," Billy said, looking her up and down, "Want to put a bit of oomph in this place? I'd like to hear what that set of pipes can do with an actual song."

Kyrie immediately held up her hands in front of her and stepped back. "No, no, no, no, no," she said quickly with a laugh and terrified gasp at the same time.

"Aw, are you sure?" Henry asked her looking quite disappointed, "I mean, you will all be off tomorrow again and... I would love to hear you sing. Something. _Anything_."

"No, sorry," she apologised, "I don't like to perform in public. Also, not everyone is fond of what I sing. It takes a bit of an acquired taste."

Billy did not want to drop the subject and he found eager support in Henry. They might be a bit uneducated and a bit rough around the edges, but they certainly recognised something extraordinary when confronted by it.

"Come on," he said, trying to sound persuasive, "Drinks will be on the house!"

Those seemed to be the magic words for Greg and John. Free drinks, how could she say no to that? Still, Kyrie was determined to say no and decline the offer. Until Sherlock opened his trap. "Oh wonderful," he said sarcastically, "Everyone suddenly loves opera. Amazing!"

"How's your sound system," Kyrie suddenly asked Billy, "Any good?"

"Very," he said with a smirk.

"Access to music?"

"Is it on Spotify?"

"Probably."

"Show me."

Kyrie smirked and she followed Billy. She scanned the available options after her search query and smiled broadly. "That one," she said.

"All righty then."

Kyrie pulled her fingers through her hair, letting it flow down her back in an unruly mess. She pulled her blouse a bit further down her shoulder and nodded at Billy. Carmen was a mezzo soprano's role and Kyrie's voice didn't have quite the necessary darkness, but she had the emotion.

The first seductive tones of the Habanera streamed into the pub through the speakers. As Kyrie slowly walked back to the small dining room where the other's were still waiting, she no longer was Kyrie, but Carmen... the lusty girl who worked in a cigarette factory.

The first words to the 'Habanera' were "Love is a rebellious bird that nobody can tame, and it's all in vain to call it if it chooses to refuse." Kyrie walked up to John, letting her hand travel over his chest, her voice almost a caress before she hopped back with a teasing smile.

"One talks well, the other is silent," she sang, moving up to Henry, her hand lightly travelling over his arm, "And it's the other that I prefer," she moved behind him and came around on his other side, "He says nothing, but he pleases me." With those words she pressed herself up against his body, her fingers splayed over his chest. She quickly danced away from him.

When she got to where she sang 'L'amour' several times, she drew it out as seductively as she knew how. Her promise to never again lose herself so passionately in a song was forgotten. With the exception of a few people she didn't know, she was singing for people she knew and loved and she felt safe.

She sang the words about love being a Gypsy child, loose and free, not concerned about the law, while acting them out. She whirled towards a wall, put her back to it and rubbed up against it, moving down, her knees bent but slightly wide.

Kyrie could feel their eyes on her and the lusty girl revelled in the attention. She leaned over Greg and sang, speaking of love, "You think you can hold it, it escapes you," and as she did so, she immediately slid away from him.

She practically slithered around the men as the enticing, luscious Carmen. She slowly danced towards Sherlock. She could feel his eyes on her as she sang, "If you do not love me, I love you! But if I love you, then beware!" Her hand caressed his cheek and as she walked to his right, she traced her fingers along his jawline.

She looked at Henry and Billy, they were trying to keep the surprise off their faces, but succeeding poorly at it. She sang the song with real feeling, giving it all she had, drawing out the last 'prends garde à toi!', 'then beware!'

The music stopped and she smiled up at the men, changing back to Kyrie.

"That was extraordinary," Billy said after a long moment of silence. "Magnificent," Henry agreed. John and Greg looked at her with fond smiles on their faces. "She _is_ magnificent," John smiled.

"Thank you," she said softly. To them it would seem she was thanking them for their kind compliments, but she was really thanking John and Sherlock, even Greg. She knew she'd been able to perform Carmen this way only because she knew they were there watching over her. Because Sherlock was watching over her. Had they not been there, she would not have performed Carmen in such an audacious way. Actually, she wouldn't have performed at all.


	24. Unremarkable

**A/N So, this new update is a bit earlier than planned, but, I wanted to crank this one out ASAP. Because... Reviews on FF seem to be working again and I see I owe one of my readers/reviewers an apology.**

 **Katt96, you have been giving me lovely reviews, reviews that make giddy to read them! But, I only got to see them yesterday. Unfortunately, your reviews had been lost in the glitch and I also never got an e-mail notification about them. I apologise if the glitch made it seem I was ignoring you. So, dear Katt96, this update is for you! And another one coming later today (for me it's now morning) right before I'm off to bed!**

 **ann11mary and .42, welcome to the club and thank you for leaving me a review. I hope you will continue to follow and read my story.**

 **Also, I would like some input. Different authors have different ways. Some leave A/N notes at the top, some at the bottom, some split A/N notes and the top and communication with reviewers at the bottom. What would you prefer? Keep it as it is? Change it up?**

 **The big question however... This is a romance story so I think it's time to get a sense of what kind of reader base I have. So... lemon chapter (with hot sweet luvin')... Do you want to see this happen? Or rather not? Would you mind if there was, maybe with a fair warning in the A/N? Would you rather see that particular stuff as a separate piece or keep it part of this story? Please let me know and thank you for you input!**

 **Also another shout out to arianedevere (can't post a link, just google along with transcript) for providing the transcripts and allowing us authors to use her work.**

 **Okay, enough rambling, let's get on with the chapter!**

"Okay, a promise is a promise. Drinks are on the house!"

Greg, John and Henry cheered a couple of times. Sherlock didn't join in the fun, he seemed to be rather preoccupied with his own thoughts.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John suddenly asked, looking at Sherlock's slightly displeased look on his face.

"Just wondering how this works."

"How what works?" John said in wonderment.

"This!" Sherlock said, getting quite agitated and he gestured at Kyrie and their surroundings. Kyrie put her arms around herself in a comforting manner and she braced herself. Whatever was bothering Sherlock, it had something to do with her and she could just sense she would not like his explanation.

"You've never even liked opera. There are thousands of great recordings of accomplished opera singers but you would never torment yourself by listening to it. But, Kyrie sings a few songs and suddenly you are a converted opera fan?" he scoffed.

"Sherlock!" John warned him as he looked at her. She exchanged a brief look with him and could feel the blood drain from her face. She was all too familiar with his mood swings, but somehow this felt like a personal attack.

"It's hypocrisy in it's purest form!" Sherlock spat. "She's good I won't deny it. With proper training and education, she could have been famous. The truth is, many already are, compared to them she is not even that special, but you would not be caught dead listening to them, because you've never even liked opera!"

"You utter cock," Greg muttered darkly before sipping on his beer. Kyrie blinked a couple of times but otherwise she held her tongue. There was nothing she could say anyway, because in a way, Sherlock was right. Though he didn't have to be so cruel about it.

"Just stating the truth," Sherlock replied pompously. "Not my fault you don't like hearing it."

John chuckled without humour. "You know, Sherlock, you are completely right, as always. I've always hated opera, never liked it in my life. But I love it when Kyrie sings, whatever she sings, because she is my friend. And she _is_ amazing. I've never been very partial about violin play either. I think it doesn't sound all that great by itself, it needs something else to shine. But, I love it when you play, whatever you play... unless you're just trolling around as you often like to do. Because you are my friend, though right now I don't like you a whole lot. The fact I'm not particularly fond of either the violin or opera, does not mean I don't enjoy it when you play or she sings."

Kyrie smiled gratefully at John and she gave Greg and Henry a quick nod, before she turned around and left the dining area.

She was already climbing the steps to their small room when she heard footsteps behind her, following her. She opened the door, quickly entered and immediately slammed the door shut behind her.

Kyrie kept her mind focussed on every little detail of her actions as she got ready for bed... brushing her teeth, brushing her hair, changing into her nightshirt. It kept her mind from straying to unwanted thoughts.

She didn't look up when the door of the room slowly creaked open, nor when she heard the measured footsteps of Sherlock entering the room. Wordlessly she unclipped the clasp of her necklace, Sherlock's gift, and carefully placed it on the night stand, pretending that she'd just turned around and flung it in his face instead.

She completely ignored him as she slipped underneath the covers on the bed, curled onto her side en closed her eyes. Kyrie just laid in bed, quietly, listening to Sherlock getting ready for the night as well. His movements sounded a bit off. He usually just padded about and went about his business not caring whether he was loud or not. Tonight, his actions seemed more careful and deliberate.

Kyrie hoped he was feeling at least a little bit bad about his earlier words, though with him you could never be sure what he was thinking or feeling. Knowing Sherlock, he was just mulling over the case or, even more likely, already impatiently waiting for a new one. There was little else he cared for anyway.

She kept ignoring him when he turned off the lights and when she could feel the weight of his body settle on the mattress of the bed.

Now that he was no longer wandering around the room, she opened her eyes again and stared at the pale moonlight softly falling in through the window.

There came no softly uttered 'Good night' from either of them. They just laid in silence. Each, so Kyrie presumed, occupied by their own thoughts. She had no idea how long she kept staring into the darkness, just that at some point she'd fallen asleep.

SSS

The next morning, when Kyrie opened her eyes, she found the space next to her unoccupied.  
She wasn't surprised. She pushed herself upright and then she did blink in surprise. Sherlock was standing there, leaning against the wall, all dressed and ready for the day.

"Okay," she mumbled, "This is creepy, even for you. How long have you been standing there?"

"My words last night... I offended you. I am sorry," he said with about as much emotional gravitas as a rock and he completely ignored her question.

She sighed, flung her legs from beneath the covers and went to sit on the edge of the bed.

"You were just being honest," she said, without any tone or emotion in her voice. "I guess I should be glad to know how you really consider me."

"How _I_ really consider you?" he asked. "And how would that be, exactly?"

"Unremarkable," Kyrie replied as she got up from the bed. She rummaged through the valise and pulled out a simple lilac coloured, boiled wool, mock-neck dress along with some underwear.

"That's not how I see you at at all," he disagreed.

"No back paddling, Sherlock, I only summed up what you said in one word." Kyrie slipped into the small bathroom for a quick shower. When she returned, putting a final pin in her messy French roll, Sherlock was still there, leaning against the wall.

"I believe I only commented on your singing. And, though I was speaking truthfully, I _am_ sorry my words offended you," Sherlock said, promptly picking up the conversation where they had left it off.

Kyrie closed her eyes as she reached for her necklace to put it around her neck. Before she could fiddle with the clasp, she felt Sherlock's fingers brushing against her neck, taking over the task.

"Sherlock, do you have any idea how hard it can be to be around you?"

"It's quite a challenge, I've been told." His voice had a bit of an edge.

"I'm not talking about your sweet disposition, though yes, that can be difficult as well."

Sherlock remained quiet, so either he was actually listening to her, or he'd already tuned her out. She turned around and found his gaze fixed intently on her. It actually surprised her.

"You have many qualities, Sherlock, even if you think you've just got the one," she said after a while before looking away from him to sit back on the bed and pull on her boots.

"You are very smart. There's a lot of knowledge stored in that head of yours... So much knowledge... And all you have to do to get to it is stroll around in your _'Mind Palace'_. You play the violin exceptionally well for a self-taught student. You even write well, just not everyone finds what you write about equally interesting. You are loyal to those you think deserve it and you are willing to help, even when you don't like the person needing help a whole lot. And to top all of that off," she said, standing back up to look at him. "You can read people about as quickly as you can read crime scenes and solve puzzles. Just a glance, just a few seconds and you know more about them than they know about themselves."

By this point Sherlock was just blankly staring at her. He was not exactly accustomed to receiving compliments. So, when he did receive them, he did not receive them gracefully.

"And then there's me," she gestured at herself with a humourless smirk. "I'm not unattractive but also not a great beauty. I'm not the most intelligent and not particularly well-educated either. I have several interests but no great talent at them. I only have my voice. I'm a classically-trained singer, but not a performer. I've been told I have one of the greatest voices in the world but when it became clear I would never perform, not really, the education and the training stopped."

"What does that have to do with how _you_ think _I_ perceive you?"

"The only thing that sets me apart is my voice, if you take that away, then what is left?" she asked softly.

"Kyrie, you were great, you know that. You _have_ an amazing voice and to be honest... I've NEVER heard someone hold a note the way you did last night," he said and Kyrie looked up at him, surprised to hear something akin to reverence in his voice.

"Is it true you are not the most accomplished singer? Yes. And amidst all the other gifted singers it's also true you are not the best. That does not mean I think you are unremarkable. Because, I don't think I've met another woman as remarkable as you."

Kyrie eyed him suspiciously but could find no hint of dishonesty in his features or in his gaze. She knew she'd regret hearing it, but she had to know his meaning.

"My voice is my only redeeming feature, if that's not what makes me remarkable, then what does?"

Sherlock stepped in front of her and gave her an apologetic smile. "Your amazing ability to put up with _me_ on a daily basis."

Kyrie's mouth dropped open. She should have known... His vanity sometimes just surpassed itself. Yet, as she looked up at him, she realised he had absolutely no idea what he had just said, exactly. And she started laughing. It wasn't to be stopped, or controlled, it just bubbled up from deep inside her and she clutched her sides as she succumbed to peals of laughter.

"What? What are you doing? What is so funny?" Sherlock asked bewildered.

"You!" she cried out, tears of laughter streaming down her face. "You are _so_ vain!"

"I am not!" he said offended. "Why am I vain?"

"You are!" she hiccuped. "Because... because..." she tried to steady herself, "You just basically told me... that my only... my ONE redeeming quality... is you!"

Sherlock pondered that notion and then he grinned at her. "If you say it like that, it does sound a bit … not good... doesn't it?"

"Maybe just a bit," she agreed.

"Actually, I think it's the other way around."

"What is?" Kyrie asked as she put on her coat and handed Sherlock his.

"I think that, all things considered, MY only redeeming quality... is, well, you. Well, you _and_ John," he said with a timid smile.

"That, Sherlock Holmes, has to be the biggest pile of horse manure I've ever heard and I'm putting it delicately now. But, thank you, anyway."

He turned away with a smile and took his suit case and her valise with him, before they both went downstairs.

Kyrie and John were sitting at one of the wooden tables outside. The weather was nice enough that John had decided to not wear his coat.

"So?" John asked her, giving her a pointed look.

"We're okay, if that's what you're wondering. He apologised. Sort of," she said with a smirk.

John chuckled. "Yeah, well... it's what he excels at... to _sort o_ _f_ apologise and have people actually accept it as well."

They both laughed. Billy sauntered up to them, carrying two plates and set it in front of them. It actually looked quite decent, a full English vegetarian breakfast for John and some pancakes for her.

"Mmm. Thanks, Billy," John said. "He was an absolute cock though, last night," he continued as Billy walked away.

"I know. It comes with the territory I guess," Kyrie said with a smirk.

"Oh, it really does," he agreed.

Sherlock walked over to them, carefully bringing over three mugs. He put one down in front of John and one in front of Kyrie.

"Oh, don't look like that! I got you tea!" he scolded her lightly when she cast a suspicious glance at her mug. He looked back at Billy who walked back to the inn. "So they didn't have it put down, then... the dog.

John and Kyrie both tucked into their breakfast while Sherlock turned to look at the inn, sipping at his coffee in thought.

"Obviously," John said as he was cutting into something that looked like a veggie burger. "Suppose they just couldn't bring themselves to do it."

"I see," Sherlock said as he took another sip.

Kyrie snorted and John smiled. "No you don't," he simply stated.

"No, I don't," Sherlock agreed, "Sentiment?"

"Sentiment," John affirmed Sherlock's guess.

"In one try, good for you!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a seat next to Kyrie. "Impertinent," he said dryly.

"I've decided it's my new only redeeming quality," she said with a grin.

Sherlock turned his head to look at her. "Impertinent!" he said pointedly, though the corners of his lips twitched a bit.

John looked at them with an amused look on his face. "Listen, what happened to me in the lab?" he asked, changing the subject. Kyrie quickly put a piece of pancake in her mouth. She was not going to answer that one. Sherlock quickly turned to his right and reached for a box filled with sauce sachets.

"Do you want some sauce with that?" he asked John in an attempt to distract him.

"I mean, I hadn't been to the Hollow, so how come I heard those things in there? Fear and stimulus, you said."

"Among other things," Kyrie muttered, remembering Sherlock getting a bit frisky when the fear had subsided. She grinned when she noticed a suspicious shade of pink starting to colour his usually deathly pale cheeks.

Sherlock rummaged through the box of sachets. "You must have been dosed with it elsewhere," he said offhandedly, as if the contents of the box were much more important.

"When you went to the lab, maybe. You saw those pipes – pretty ancient, leaky as a sieve. And they were carrying the gas, so... Um, ketchup, was it, or brown...?"

"Hang on... You thought it was in the sugar. You were _convinced_ it was in the sugar!"

Sherlock suddenly looked over John's head. "Better get going, actually," he said glancing at his watch, "There's a train that leaves in half an hour. Kyrie and I are all set to go, so if you want..."

John looked away, a look of dawning realisation on his face. "You cock. It was you. You locked me in that _bloody_ lab."

"I had to," Sherlock nodded, admitting the truth. "It was an experiment."

"An experiment?!" John cried out.

Sherlock directed his gaze at people sitting nearby, without even slightly turning his head. "Shhhh!" he warned John.

"I was terrified, Sherlock!" John said a bit more quiet but no less offended. "I was scared to death."

"Yeah, we could see that," Kyrie remarked on a sip of tea.

"You too, Kyrie?" John asked.

Kyrie held up her hands in defence. "I honestly didn't know, by the time he finally decided to fill me in, there was little I could do."

"She's right. I didn't tell her. I thought that the drug was in the sugar, so I put the sugar in your coffee. Then I arranged everything with Major Barrymore. He wasn't very happy about it either."

"I wonder why," Kyrie muttered and John sighed in exasperation.

"It was all totally scientific... laboratory conditions – well, literally," Sherlock defended his actions.

"And enjoying yourself way too much! It was not decent!" Kyrie scolded him.

"Is that why you almost ruined the experiment?"

" _W_ _hat_ exactly _was_ the experiment?" Kyrie asked him.

"Well, I knew what effect it had had on a superior mind, so I needed to try it on an average one."

"Of course, should've seen that one coming," Kyrie muttered. John merely looked up from his plate, sending Sherlock a certain look.

"You know what I mean," Sherlock said good naturedly, taking the sting from his words.

John took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. "But it wasn't in the sugar," John said after a while.

"No, well... I wasn't to know you'd already been exposed to the gas. And you should be glad you didn't get a full dose too." Sherlock defended his goof up.

"So, you got it wrong."

"No," Sherlock differed.

"Mm. You were wrong. It wasn't in the sugar," John insisted. "You got it wrong."

"A bit. It won't happen again."

"Why did you pick me and not Kyrie. She takes sugar in her tea," John asked, taking another bite. Suddenly he stopped chewing and turned to look at Sherlock. "Any long-term effects?"

"I didn't even know Kyrie takes sugar in her tea," Sherlock muttered. "And no, none at all. You'll be fine once you've excreted it. We all will."

"Think I might have taken care of that already," John remarked dryly.

Sherlock snorted at his comment and Kyrie rolled her eyes. "Five-year-olds, I swear," she said, "Five year-olds, exact same humour."

Sherlock went a bit silent so Kyrie followed his gaze. Gary was standing nearby, pouring coffee for two other customers. He sent them an apologetic smile from his position. Sherlock quietly placed his mug on the table and stood up.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Oh, won't be a minute. Gotta see a man about a dog..." He smiled down at her and walked away.

 **A/N And that's it folks! Well, for The Hounds of Baskerville at least. You know what's coming, don't you? Next up, The Falls of Reichenbach. How will that turn out? Stay tuned, my lovely readers!**


	25. The Dear He Likes to Stalk

**A/N Sorry, this will be a shorter chapter than usual. I will try to post another chapter later this evening. Yes, yes I know, I said the same thing last night and I completely forgot! I apologise!**

 **Judygrasham So glad that you liked the piece of music I picked for Kyrie to sing! I hope to also be able to get her to sing the Chanson Boheme at some point! I'm really happy you could actually picture Kyrie performing that piece :)**

 **Katt96 It's here, Katt... The start of the Fall!**

 **EllemichelleP Wow, you binged this in less than a day? Such dedication! As always, I'm really happy with the positive feedback. It's so great to know that Kyrie feels like her own character instead of just an OC that's forced into the story.**

 **Anyway, the start of the Fall is here! Hope you enjoy!**

SSS

Back in London, Mrs Hudson was thrilled to have her boys and girl back again. She gave all of them a bear hug with surprising strength for someone with such a frail looking body. It was also when they were back, that Kyrie told Sherlock about Mycroft's puzzling words... _The stage is set._ He quickly brushed it off as nonsense... too quickly, and Kyrie did not like the withdrawn look in his eyes.

What was even more puzzling, was that the words seemed to bring with them a sudden invitation from Mycroft, extended to his little brother only...

"So, the stage is set," Sherlock said, sitting in a big green armchair across from his brother in his personal study. In the fireplace next to them, a fire was slowly dying. They were both cradling a glass filled with amber liquid in their hands.

"It is," Mycroft said. "His... criminal network is much larger than we anticipated. It's everywhere, Sherlock. The world is a web and Moriarty the spider that sits in its middle."

"And Gerulf?"

"We'll be keeping a close eye on him, of course. So, you know then what is to happen?" Mycroft asked, his voice soft.

"We have some planning to do. Make sure no turn of events is not anticipated, make sure every eventuality is allowed for."

"And you understand the terms?"

"You mean the ones we _negotiated_ in Dartmoor?" Sherlock scoffed.

"The very ones."

"Yes, I understand, brother _dear_ ," Sherlock spat. He then recomposed himself. "In the unfortunate event of my _death_... No contact when it's done. No contact until it's... finished."

"Yes," Mycroft agreed. Sherlock looked up at his brother. There was a lot of emotion in that one word, emotion he didn't think his brother was capable of.

"If Moriarty has covered everything and I need to die, you _will_ look after her?" Sherlock stared intently at his older brother.

"Of course, she _is_ a Holmes after all."

"And you are sure this will not just catapult her straight into Gerulf's path again?"

"One can never be sure of anything, brother mine, except for death."

"And taxes."

Mycroft chuckled. "That too, I suppose." His smile vanished and he settled an intent gaze of his own on his younger brother. "She is quite the opposite of you, you know? Quite emotional and... passionate. She feels deeply."

"It's what we are counting on, aren't we? But, if things don't go as planned? If Gerulf still..."

"We have a contingency plan in place. In that event, she will disappear as well and, of course, she will be fully briefed about the situation. But, let's hope it will not come to that. It's easier for one person to come back from the dead than two. We need to play this right, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded his head in agreement.

"Then, let us toast, brother mine," Mycroft said as he raised his glass. "May you rest in peace."

"I hope not," Sherlock muttered.

SSS

The air was filled with several overbearing fragrances. The lamps in the art gallery were shining brightly. The director's speech, that had already been four minutes too long after the first five minutes, was boring as hell.

But Kyrie smiled anyway, looking at two of the three most important men in her life as they stood there, being honoured. Kyrie smiled, with pride of course, but most of all because the pained expression on Sherlock's face was so funny. The case was solved, the puzzle was solved, he just wanted to get on with a new case, not to be bored with useless praise.

"And so, we can finally show you, Falls of the Reichenbach, Turner's masterpiece, thankfully recovered owing to the prodigious talent of Mr Sherlock Holmes."

Oh good, the speech was over! The Director walked over, carrying a small gift-wrapped box in red paper, tied with a black ribbon. "A small token of our gratitude," the Director said magnanimously as he handed the box to Sherlock.

"Diamond cuff links. All my cuffs have buttons," Sherlock immediately deduced. Or he just guessed. Kyrie couldn't quite believe Sherlock could just tell the contents of the box by looking at it and feeling the weight. Although... he _was_ Sherlock...

"He means thank you," John said to the Director.

"Do I?" Sherlock asked and he furrowed his brows lightly. Kyrie had no idea if he was challenging John or if he was confused about how people expected him to respond. With him it was hard to tell if he meant something in humour or in complete ridicule.

"Just say it," John insisted.

"Thank you," Sherlock said immediately but 'forgetting' to actually sound sincere. Sherlock's intention then seemed to be to walk away immediately, but John pulled him back. And so he stood still, allowing the press to ask questions and take photographs.

The next day, Kyrie was busy cutting the resulting pictures from the newspaper to put in her scrapbook. She couldn't help but laugh looking at the pained smile on Sherlock's face, as if it was actually physically hurting him to smile. She also put in a snippet of the article with less than raving reviews for the boys and girls at Scotland Yard. Poor Lestrade!

That turned out to be the first of a sudden string of pictures and articles for Kyrie to add into her scrapbook. Suddenly, Sherlock was garnering a lot of attention again.

Kyrie smiled reading the article about Sherlock masterminding the 'daring escape of the kidnapped man' and how Scotland Yard had to secretly bring in their 'special weapon'. It had been a high profile case that put Sherlock and John square into the lime lights again, much to Sherlock's chagrin. He had been given another present by the kidnapped man's son. A gift that he had tossed at Kyrie the moment they returned home.

"Send it to Mycroft, he wears ties. I don't. It's a tie pin."

Her favourite picture though, was the one from the article about the Ricoletti case. Kyrie blushed slightly at the memory as she put the picture in her scrapbook. Following the arrest of Peter Ricoletti, DI Lestrade had given a press conference. It was the first time that Kyrie came face to face with D.S. Sally Donovon and Dr Something Something Anderson. She had an immediate dislike for those two.

Kyrie made sure she was dressed impeccably in an elegant white dress with a low back. The paparazzi had figured out her status in Sherlock Holmes' life as his wife and she wanted to make sure she made him look good in the event someone managed to shoot a picture of them together.

"Peter Ricolette," Lestrade said talking into a microphone as he addressed all the people present for the conference.

"Number one on Interpol's Most Wanted list since 1982. But, we got him and there's one person we have to thank for giving us the decisive leads... with all his customary diplomacy and tact!"

Kyrie laughed lightly at Greg's words and the brief look between Sherlock and John. Everyone started to applaud, Kyrie too of course, as Greg walked over to them and handed Sherlock a gift-wrapped packaged, a huge smile spread on his face.

"We all chipped in!" he said in a way that immediately made Kyrie stretch her neck to see what it was. Sherlock tore open the wrapping paper, revealing a deerstalker. "Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, trying to smile, but he looked as if he was being tortured. The reporters promptly asked him to put it on. There was no escape. And so, as Sherlock glowered at John and shoved the wrapping paper into his hands, he finally put the hat on his head, looking very unhappy about it.

At the back of the room, Donovon and Anderson were clapping their hands, looking delighted at Sherlock's obvious discomfort. He looked a bit lost, annoyed and utterly adorable. And honestly, she had really just tried to make him feel better as they walked out of the room where the conference had been held. No photographers in sight outside of the room and the press was still inside of it.

Kyrie placed her hand on his cheek and raised herself on her toes to whisper in his ear, "Don't mind them, I love the hat." She then leaned in to press a kiss on his cheek, exactly as Sherlock turned his head down to look at her. It resulted in Kyrie kissing him on the lips just as the door of the conference room opened and the moment was forever captured in time with a picture.

Weirdly enough, Sherlock had been completely fine with their kiss being spread all over newspapers, claiming it was a good thing because it sold their marriage as being real. He was less pleased by the attention his parents were giving the article and the picture and as a result the faulty conclusions they were making.

The two things that seemed to aggravate him most, was the fact that tabloids starting giving him a nickname and the fact that it was always the deerstalker picture that popped up. Sherlock Holmes did not want to be famous because of a hat and he did not want to be famous because of a nickname.

He just wanted acclaim for his intellectual prowess, but the actual skills that he himself valued the most, became nothing more than a footnote in an article.

That first day Sherlock noticed his new nickname, he furiously stomped across the living room, clenching a newspaper in his fist. His blue dressing gown billowed behind him and seemed to share its wearer's frustration.

"Boffin?" he said in utter indignation. "Boffin Sherlock Holmes." He threw down the Daily Star onto a pile of newspapers on the coffee table with such vehemence that Kyrie looked up from the magazine she was perusing herself from her position on the sofa.

"Everyone gets one," John stated next to her as he put down his newspaper to pick up the one Sherlock had just discarded.

"One what?"

"Tabloid nickname," John explained, "'SuBo', 'Nasty Nick'. Shouldn't worry, I'll probably get one soon."

"Page five, column six, first sentence," Sherlock informed him. John immediately turned to the relevant page. Sherlock walked over to the fireplace and picked up the deerstalker covering a Samurai statue on the mantle. It had landed there when Sherlock had earlier flung the offending headgear across the room in a fit of anger.

"Why is it always the hat photograph!" Sherlock glared at the hat and punched it violently.

"Sherlock, don't punch the hat, it's innocent," Kyrie admonished him lightly, "And I quite like the hat on you. It suits you."

"No, it doesn't!" he scoffed.

"Bachelor John Watson?" John ignored them as he had just found something to complain about himself.

"What sort of hat is it anyway?"

"'Bachelor'? What the hell are they implying?"

Sherlock held up the hat and glared at it, turning it back and forth in swift motions. "Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?"

"It's a deerstalker," Kyrie said, turning a page from her magazine, "Also known as a fore-and-aft cap, precisely because of the front and rear bills."

"Frequently seen in the company of 'Bachelor' John Watson..." John complained.

"What?" Sherlock said in disdain, "How the hell do you stalk a deer with a hat? What am I gonna do – throw it?" He held it like a flying disc, pretending to throw it out of the window.

"Oh, it gets better," John groused, looking at another part of the article. " _Confirmed_ bachelor John Watson!"

"Some sort of death frisbee?" Sherlock looked at the way he was holding it and pretended to fling it like a flying disc again.

"Okay, this is too much. We need to be more careful," John exclaimed trying to get Sherlock's attention.

"Wow, John..." Kyrie laughed. "It's okay when they call Sherlock 'Boffin' but the moment they call you 'Bachelor', you think you guys need to be more careful?"

John wordlessly threw some tabloid her way.

"It's got flaps... ear flaps. It's an ear hat, John!" Sherlock said in disgust, skimming the hat across the room to John, who caught it easily.

Kyrie turned the pages of the tabloid and paled when she read a certain headline right above the picture of her kissing Sherlock. 'THE DEAR SHERLOCK HOLMES REALLY LIKES TO STALK AT NIGHT.'

"What do you mean, _more careful_?" Sherlock asked in mild astonishment.

"I mean, this isn't a deerstalker now," John said, holding up the hat, "It's a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean that you're not exactly a private detective any more."

"Consulting detective," Sherlock mumbled.

John ignored the complaint and held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "You're this far from famous."

"Oh, it'll pass," Sherlock waved his concerns away as he flopped down in his armchair, placing the tips of his fingers together.

"It'd better pass. The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn. And they'll turn on you," John said, pointing his finger at Sherlock.

Sherlock put his hands on the armrests of the chair and turned his head to look at John. "It really bothers you," he then said, sounding a bit surprised.

"What?" John asked.

"What people say."

"Yes."

"About me? I don't understand – why would it upset you?" Sherlock gaze at John, his brows furrowed in puzzlement as if John was an insect he needed to dissect.

John just stared at Sherlock for a moment. Kyrie lightly nudged him in the ribs, reminding John that Sherlock did not fully grasp the workings of 'caring' for friends.

"Just try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a little case this week," John said setting the deerstalker down on the pile of newspapers. "Stay out of the news."

"I wouldn't mind a bit of prudence either, Sherlock," Kyrie said, holding up the tabloid with the offending headline. "I don't like to be referred to as prey, it might give someone a few nasty ideas."

Sherlock didn't reply, he just seemed to blankly stare into space, his lips set in a grim line.


	26. You Repel Me

A couple of days later, Sherlock appeared to have heeded John's words and had only taken on a few low profile cases. At the moment he was even working on a cold case. So far it had been a quiet day. Sherlock was sitting at the table in the kitchen, peering into his microscope. John was taking his time in the shower and Kyrie was preparing them tea and arranged freshly baked soft chocolate chip cookies on a plate.

The sound of a text alert drew her attention, but Sherlock didn't respond in the slightest. She shrugged her shoulder. If Sherlock didn't want to read his messages, who was she to force him?

John came walking into the kitchen, dressed in his bathrobe, rubbing the back of his neck with a towel. At that moment another text alert chimed.

"It's your phone," John said to Sherlock as he walked past them.

"Mm. Keeps doing that," Sherlock said sounding not the least bit interested.

"It's not a defect, Sherlock!" Kyrie sighed. "Where is your phone anyway?"

"Trouser pocket."

Kyrie rolled her eyes and John smirked at her as he walked over to the living room, ignoring the mannequin in a suit, hanging by its neck from the ceiling, slowly swaying back and forth. He sat down in his chair and picked up a newspaper.

"Tea?" Kyrie asked.

"Please," John said pleasantly.

"Cookies?" Sherlock inquired.

"Yes, Sherlock, you can have cookies too. Chocolate chip okay?"

"I prefer ginger nuts."

"I'm not baking you ginger nuts every bloody time, Sherlock, not going to happen," Kyrie said with a sigh as she poured a strong Assam blend into a couple of mugs and added a splash of milk. She brought over a mug and a saucer with two cookies over to John who accepted it with a smile.

"So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?" John asked setting down the saucer while cradling the mug with steaming hot tea in his hands.

"Oh, you know him," Kyrie smirked as she put down a mug of tea near Sherlock and a saucer with two cookies. "He just goes on, and on, and on, and on, and..."

"Yes, yes, if you are quite done!" Sherlock said a bit annoyed. He briefly looked up at the swaying mannequin. "Henry Fishgard never committed suicide." He picked up an old hardback book from the table, briefly looked at it before he slammed it shut, sending a flurry of dust everywhere as he did so.

"Bow Street Runners... missed everything," he said, putting the book back down. He then grabbed one of the cookies and took a bite.

"Pressing case, is it?" John asked.

"They're all pressing 'til they're solved," Sherlock replied through a mouthful of cookie crumbles as he peered back into his microscope again.

After that it was silent for a while. Sherlock was busy with... whatever he was busy with. John was reading his newspaper and enjoying his tea and cookies. Kyrie was making a list of groceries she needed to get.

"Cape Malay chicken curry?" she asked no one in particular.

"Sounds good," John said. Sherlock responded with nothing more than a 'Mm.'

Kyrie looked up when Sherlock's phone chimed again with another text alert.

"Please, don't reach into your pocket to get your phone, let me," Kyrie drawled. John coughed suspiciously. With a sigh Kyrie set her groceries list aside and got up to walk over to Sherlock.

She patted his legs to find the pocket he had hidden his phone in. Sherlock didn't flinch or even looked up from the microscope as Kyrie reached her hand into his right pocket to fish out the phone. She walked back over to John while checking the messages, not expecting to find anything really interesting considering the slow day this seemed to be. When she read the message though, she swallowed audibly. She turned around and walked back, holding out the phone to Sherlock.

"Here," she said quietly.

"Not now, I'm busy," he said in a deflective manner.

"Sherlock..."

"Not now!" he said testily.

"That guy is back!"

That seemed to get his attention. He looked up at her, an unreadable expression on his face, as he took the phone from her and read the latest messages.

\- Come and play.  
\- Tower Hill.  
\- Jim Moriarty x.

and

\- Gerulf is moving.

\- M.

Sherlock stared off into space, his face an unreadable mask as he relinquished his ramrod straight position and sank back on his chair.

SSS

Kyrie didn't argue when Sherlock wordlessly handed her coat to her. He wrapped his scarf around his neck while John already waited for them at the top of the stairs.

They quickly descended the stairs and outside, as per usual, Sherlock managed to quickly hail them a taxi. Sherlock ordered the cabbie to step on it.

Greg Lestrade was already waiting for them and he quickly ushered them inside towards the security room. If he was at all surprised to find Kyrie there, he did not comment on it, though D.S. Sally Donovon did send a few curious glances in her direction.

Greg showed them the security footage of Moriarty scribbling something on the glass, then sticking something to it.

"That glass is tougher than anything," Greg said.

"Not tougher than crystallised carbon," Sherlock said quietly. "He used a diamond."

"Then just _say_ diamond," Kyrie muttered, leaning over his shoulder.

"I believe I just did."

Greg showed them footage from a different angle, rewinding it first so they saw thousands of shattered pieces of glass restoring themselves, up to the moment when Moriarty was about to ram a fire extinguisher against the glass panel. On the glass they could see his little message. 'Get Sherlock' with a smiley face drawn inside the O of Sherlock's name.

Journalists somehow managed to get their hands on pictures of the security footage. Especially the picture with Moriarty's invitation seemed quite popular. They called it the 'Crime of the Century' and without much to go on, the papers ran rampant with the wildest theories about how James Moriarty had been able to break into the Tower of London, Pentonville Prison and the Bank of England at the exact same time.

Not long after that, when the media had caught wind that Sherlock was to be involved in an entirely different capacity, it again got spread all over the news. 'Amateur detective to be called as expert witness'. Of course next to the article was a photo of Sherlock putting on the deerstalker at the Scotland Yard press conference.

James Moriarty was referred to as the Crown Jewel thief in an article that told he was to be tried at the Old Bailey. There was a picture of him, also acquired from security footage, wearing the crown on his head and a smug look on his face. _Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall_.

It was that picture of Moriarty decked in the crown jewels that didn't sit right with Kyrie. It rang a bell somehow. It was so... dramatic... theatrical... "The stage is set," she heard Mycroft say again. "Tell Sherlock the stage is set..." _Humpty Dumpty had a great fall._ She had a really bad feeling about this.

SSS

It was the day of the trial and Kyrie was a wreck of nerves. She was dressed in a deep taupe pencil skirt and matching blazer over a pale mauve shirt.

John was standing in front of the mirror tying his his tie while Sherlock was standing near Kyrie, buttoning up his jacket as she put on a pair of suede T-strapped block heels.

To keep her nerves under control, Kyrie helped to fix John's slightly crooked tie. She cringed seeing her reflection in the mirror. She looked unnaturally pallid, her pale complexion almost rivalling Sherlock's. She then walked over to Sherlock to straighten his jacket over his shoulders. He rolled his eyes slightly annoyed, but refrained from blurting out some snide comment. He quietly sniffed the air around her instead.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Baiser Vole, Cartier," she replied softly.

"It's nice."

She tried to smile up at him, but her lips refused to cooperate. "Thanks."

Sherlock leaned down and placed a quick kiss against her cheek before he turned around and walked out of the living room. Kyrie looked after him for a short while, puzzled at his gesture that seemed so unlike him. She shook her head lightly and then followed him and John down the stairs.

Sherlock halted in front of the door and for the first time Kyrie noticed a fleeting look of anxiety cross his features. John moved past Sherlock to open the door, but paused his hand on the door handle.

"You guys ready?" John asked them, looking quite dapper in his dark suit and striped shirt.

Sherlock nodded slightly. "Yes," he said slightly breathless.

John opened the door and stepped outside into the madness. Police officers were trying to hold back a frenzied crowd of journalists who immediately starting shooting pictures of them and calling out questions. Sherlock placed his hand at the small of Kyrie's back and helped her to climb into the waiting police car next to John. Sherlock quickly climbed in next to her and slammed the door shut behind him.

Reporters found a way to swarm the police car like locusts, trying to get in their cameras as close to the windows as possible, in hopes of getting a golden shot. Thankfully the car quickly sped away, its sirens wailing, leaving behind the overzealous lot.

Kyrie felt kind of squished in between Sherlock and John, though it felt oddly comforting as well. They sat together in the back, in silence, each with their own thoughts. By the time the car went around Trafalgar Square, John decided to give Sherlock a few pointers.

"Remember..." he started. Sherlock did not give him a chance to continue. "Yes," he interjected.

John rolled his eyes and tried again. "Remember..."

"Yes," Sherlock cut in again.

Kyrie smiled faintly. Sherlock, apparently, did not feel like taking any advice. John decided to give it to him anyway.

John licked his lips, a determined look flashing in his eyes. "Remember what they told you... Don't try to be clever..."

"No."

John sighed. "And please, just keep it simple and brief."

"God forbid the star witness at the trial should come across as intelligent," Sherlock muttered darkly.

"Intelligent is fine," John nodded, "Let's give 'smart-arse' a wide berth."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I'll just be myself," he finally said.

Kyrie couldn't help but smile when John leaned over to send Sherlock and exasperated look. "Are you even listening to me?"

Outside the Old Bailey, TV reporters were talking into various cameras, each trying to record a piece for their news programmes. When they arrived, they were as quickly rushed inside as they had been picked up at Baker Street.

Inside, Sherlock excused himself with Kyrie and John. He went to the bathroom to relieve himself. Afterwards he washed his hands at the basin. He could then hear the announcement... "Crown versus Moriarty – please proceed to Court Ten."

Well, that meant Kyrie and John would now be on their way to find a seat in the public gallery.

Suddenly something behind him dropped on the floor. His eyes shot up to his reflection in the mirror. He scowled seeing some unknown woman standing behind him, all doe-eyed and with that ridiculous hat on her head. He turned off the tap and angrily grabbed some paper towels to wipe his hands

"You're him," she said, sounding like she was going to swoon.

Even looking at her through the mirror, it was easy to spot her 'I _heart_ Sherlock' badge on her jacket.

"Wrong toilet," he said.

"I'm a big fan," the woman said.

Sherlock turned around, full height, and looked down at her. "Evidently," he said sarcastically.

"I read your cases. Follow them all," she said with a longing sigh while sidling closer to him, looking up with... hmm, that was odd... she tried to look awestruck, but there was something calculating in her eyes as well.

"Sign my shirt, would you?" the woman asked, peeling back her jacket, revealing that she had undone enough buttons to show and indecent amount of cleavage, and she even waved a pen at him that she conveniently had at hand. As she did, she invaded his personal space even further.

As Sherlock looked down at her, he looked at her as he usually looked at women, without the slightest spark of interest and with a lot of annoyance.

The deerstalker hat she wore offended him, her ginger hair braided in pig-tail plaits offended him, the look she sent him offended him. Somehow, the entire posture of this... woman... offended him.

"There are two types of fans," he said in a tone that would have put John and Kyrie on alert.

"Oh?" she said, as if she wanted to hear all about his explanation.

"Catch me before I kill again – Type A..." Sherlock explained, his eyes widening a bit.

"U-huh. What's Type B?"

"Your bedroom's just a taxi ride away," he stated quickly.

The woman kept her eyes locked on his and grinned seductively. "Guess which one I am," she said, trying to sound provocatively. Sherlock wasn't moved by her in the least. He quickly glanced her up and down, noticed the pressure marks, the bulge in her pocket and the ink.

"Neither," he concluded. The woman blinked her eyes at him. "Really?" she asked.

"No. You're not a fan at all," he said as he noticed the indentations in her skin, just below her right wrist. "Those marks on your forearm... edge of a desk. You've been typing in a hurry, probably. Pressure on... facing a deadline."

"That all?" she asked, but a lot of her bravado seemed to dissipate and she could no longer maintain eye contact. She quickly looked away.

"And there's a smudge of ink on your wrist, and a bulge in your left jacket pocket." Sherlock looked squarely at her pocket from which he could see the edge of a dictaphone protrude. The shining red light glared at him, alerting him that he was being recorded.

"Bit of a give-away?" she asked with a smile.

"The smudge is deliberate, to see if I'm as good as they say I am."

"Are you?" she asked.

"I'm better," he said with confidence and lifted her hand to sniff a the ink on her wrist. He turned up his nose when a pungent lingering perfume hit him first.

He had no desire at all to deduce what kind of stench she was wearing. He cleared his throat. "Hmm. Oil-based, used in newspaper print, but drawn on with an index finger... your finger..."

The woman made a throaty approving sound.

"Journalist," Sherlock deduced. "Unlikely you'd get your hands dirty at the press." He suddenly stopped as he realised something. "You put that there to test me," he said, feeling a bit insulted.

"Wow, I'm liking you!" she said, full on admiration evident in her eyes and voice this time.

"You mean I'd make a great feature... 'Sherlock Holmes – the man beneath the hat," he said in a mocking tone.

"Kitty," the woman introduced herself, locking her eyes with his while taking off the hat. "Riley. Pleased to meet you," she offered her hand for him to shake.

"No," Sherlock said, ignoring her hand. "I'm just saving you the trouble of asking. No, I won't give you an interview. No, I don't want the money," he said, his voice dripping with all the disdain he felt for her and her ilk. He tried to push past her, but the overzealous ingrate chased after him as he marched to the door.

"What about you and Mrs Holmes? Just platonic? I've heard whispers you know, of a _marriage_ of _convenience_..." Kitty quickly manoeuvred herself between him and the door, preventing him from leaving. Even worse, she sidled up in front of him in a manner he found quite vulgar. He looked down at her and breathed audibly through his nose, a sign for those who actually knew him, he was close to losing his patience.

"Don't you dare pull my wife into this little game of yours," he said calmly, but with a distinct warning undertone in his voice.

"Mm, so protective of your little _dear_. Nights filled with passion after all then? Or are you as cold as you seem? Do you need... assistance in getting little Sherlock to come out and play?"

Sherlock took a steadying breath. It would definitely not help to commit a very violent homicide right now. Just... the things she said! Such a vile mouth spewing sewer dredge like that! If he was at all romantically inclined, he would certainly not need any assistance in _that_ department!

"There's all sorts of gossip in the press about you. Sooner or later you're gonna need someone on your side..." Kitty reached into her pocket, pulled out her business card and held it up for him to see, before she tucked it into his breast pocket. "Someone to set the record straight."

Sherlock coldly stared at her, a sarcastic smile curving his lips. "And you think you're the girl for the job, do you?" He said it with all the disdain he could muster, wanting to convey exactly how he felt about her.

"I'm smart, and you can trust me. Totally," she said a bit defensively.

"Smart? Okay. Investigative journalist. Good. Well, look at me and tell me what you see," he said, challenging her while moving himself quite close to her, before taking a step back. He knew that her vapid little mind could not make a single deduction about him.

She would fail to detect the faint lingering smell of Baiser Vole. After Kyrie had nearly been jostled against him a few times, and after that brief assuring kiss to her cheek, Sherlock could quite clearly detect traces of her scent on him here and there.

Furthermore, she would fail to detect he had gained a bit of weight recently, causing the buttons in his shirt to stretch the fabric a bit more than usual. He had grown... quite accustomed to Kyrie's excellent cooking.

As he'd expected, she just stared at him blankly, not able to say a damn thing.

"If you're that skilful, you don't need an interview. You can just..." he inhaled sharply, "... _read_ what you need. That's how I do it. All the time."

Kitty suddenly looked a bit unsure about the situation. She looked away and shuffled her feet a bit awkwardly.

"No?" he asked, not hiding the fact he was mocking her. "Okay, my turn." He immediately settled his gaze on her, the one he used to discern every little detail there was to know about someone, if the need arose.

"I look at you and I see someone who's still waiting for their first big scoop so that their editor will notice them," he said in a quick-fire way, walking around her, taking in her appearance. "You're wearing an expensive skirt but it's been re-hemmed twice, the only posh skirt you've got. And your nails... You can't afford to do them that often.

The perfume you are wearing, you think it's classy and that it will make people take you serious, when in fact it's old and musty and just makes people want to walk in the opposite direction. All that disdain you showed when you talked about my wife and you can't even hold a candle to her. I see someone who's hungry. I don't see smart. And I definitely don't see trustworthy, but I'll give you a quote if you like – three little words..."

Sherlock this time stepped into _her_ personal space as he reached down to take the dictaphone from her pocket. She involuntary took a step closer to him as he slowly and deliberately spoke into the dictaphone. "You... _repel_... me."

She gasped slightly, but Sherlock wasted no further time on her and angrily left the area.


	27. Serving Tea

**A/N I am having so much fun, writing the episode 'The Sign of Three'! It pretty much writes itself! I almost forgot to post an update today. Fair warning, I'm starting a different job soon that leaves me with less time to write. Luckily I am like two episodes ahead of you guys and I'll do my best to keep ahead so I can post regularly. If and when things will change, I will let you know. Any thoughts already about the amount of romance you'd like to see in the future chapters?**

 **Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! If you feel kind, I would appreciate a review. I thank you!**

SSS

Sherlock stood up, straightened his back, buttoned up his jacket and walked over to the witness box when the prosecuting barrister called him to the stand. Sherlock found the entire proceeding rather tedious. The barrister was not someone who excelled in her job. He knew it, but more importantly, Moriarty knew it too. He was seated in the dock opposite of him, casually chewing on a piece of gum.

Her line of questioning was all wrong, Moriarty was annoying him and something else... was off. Sherlock's eyes wandered up to find John and Kyrie sitting in the public gallery upstairs. There was something off in this setting... but what?

"A 'consulting criminal'," the barrister repeated his words.

"Yes," Sherlock said as he clasped his hands in front of him.

"Your words. Can you expand on that answer?"

"James Moriarty is for hire," he stated. Wasn't that obvious when he called Moriarty a 'consulting criminal'?

"A tradesman?"

"Yeees," Sherlock replied, drawing out the e. John couldn't complain though, his answers were brief and simple.

"But not the sort who'd fix your heating."

"No, the sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler," Sherlock dead panned.

The remark caused some people present to laugh, though discreetly. The barrister had a bit more trouble hiding her smile. Jim merely raised his eyebrows at the comment, conceding that Sherlock had a point.

"Would you describe him as..."

"Leading," Sherlock interrupted her.

"What?"

"Can't do that. You're leading the witness." Sherlock nodded in the direction of the defending barrister. "He'll object and the judge will uphold."

"Mr Holmes," the judge warned him lightly. Sherlock breathed in and out. Just be intelligent, give 'smart-arse' a wide birth. What the hell was even the difference? He was just smart! He decided to give the prosecuting barrister a helping hand.

"Ask me how. 'How' would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?"

"Mr Holmes, we're fine without your help," the judge reminded him to stick to answering the questions. Perhaps that last comment had been a bit unwise. Oh, was that considered being a 'smart-arse'?

Sherlock noticed someone familiar quietly walk into the public gallery to find herself a seat. He scowled when he realised who it was. He recognised the scent wafting towards him before he recognised the ginger pig-tail plaits.

"How would you describe this man, his character?"

"First mistake," Sherlock answered, his eyes locking with Jim's. "James Moriarty isn't a man at all – he's a spider. A spider at the centre of a web – a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances."

Jim slightly inclined his head in an almost imperceptible nod, approving of his description. A spider... something about his own statement drew Sherlock's attention. The spider in the middle... feeling all the threads. But where did the spider go when it appeared to have left its domain? It lay in waiting... Somewhere... in a corner.

The prosecuting barrister cleared her throat, as if she was unnerved by the metonymy. But Sherlock looked up at the public gallery. There in the corner... he found the anomaly in the setting, the spider lying in wait. Gerluf Schricken looked down at him, a twisted smile curling his lips. Sherlock cast his eyes at Kyrie, but merely found her staring at him intently, without any sign she was aware of a certain unwanted presence up there.

Sherlock pulled his lips in a tight line when that woman's remark popped into his head again. What was her name? Not important, insignificant... What had she said? _"I've heard whispers you know, of a_ _ **marriage**_ _of_ _ **convenience**_ _..."_

"And how long...?"

He closed his eyes in exasperation. The stupidity and audacity and unrightful self-importance of the people that surrounded him... it was all too grating.

"No, no, don't... Don't do that. That's really not a good question."

"Mr Holmes!" The judge warned him again.

"How long have I known him? Not really your best line of enquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun. He tried to blow me up. I felt we had a special something," he said, his eyes finding Jim's. There was a brief exchange of looks between them.

"Miss Sorrel," the judge asked the prosecuting barrister. "Are you seriously claiming this man is an expert, after knowing the accused for just five minutes?"

Sherlock briefly noticed Kyrie shaking her head and forming the word 'no' with her lips in a fervent manner, cautioning him to... He had no idea. He hadn't said anything remotely insulting.

"Two minutes would have made me an expert," he replied. "Five was ample."

"Mr Holmes, that's a matter for the jury," the judge averred.

"Oh, really?" he asked, as if the judge had just challenged him. As he turned his eyes toward the jury box, he could vaguely see John rubbing his temple and Kyrie shaking her head vehemently. Then he settled the full force of his gaze onto the twelve people sitting in the jury box and needed but seconds to deduce their lives and the things they wanted to keep secret.

"One librarian. Two teachers. Two high-pressured jobs, probably the City," he said. He then glanced at a woman on the far left of the front row. There was a notebook resting on the ledge in front of her and she was taking notes in shorthand.

"The foreman's a medical secretary, trained abroad, judging by her shorthand..."

"Mr Holmes!

Sherlock ignored the white noise coming from the judge and scanned the rings on the jury member's fingers. "Seven are married and two are having an affair. With each other, it would seem! Oh, and they've just had tea and biscuits."

He turned to look at the judge. "Would you like to know who ate the wafer?"

"Mr Holmes! You've been called her to answer Miss Sorrel's questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess."

Sherlock sighed deeply at the admonishment, but couldn't help but smirk at John when the judge at least was clever enough to acknowledge his 'intellectual prowess'. John seemed less pleased. He just glared at him. Sherlock's smirk dropped from his face. Kyrie just looked... dismayed.

"Keep your answers brief and to the point," the judge continued. "Anything else will be treated as contempt."

Sherlock, not getting any backup from his best friend or his wife, locked eyes with Jim. He slightly arched a brow at him. They were, after all, surrounded by idiots. Jim smirked a bit, as if he knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking, and agreed with him.

Now, if the judge had just stopped there, things would have been fine. But, the judge didn't stop and things weren't fine.

"Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes without _showing off_?" the judge bellowed.

From where he was standing, he could hear Kyrie groan in dismay. He did pause for a moment, he did give the question some thought. And then he opened is mouth and drew in a long breath to prepare himself...

SSS

Kyrie stood off to John's side and looked at Sherlock. He was being released and right now he was busy signing some papers for his personal property. John stood next to him, leaning his back against the desk, his arms folded, a cross look on his face.

"What did I say? I said, 'Don't get clever'," John said. He seemed more disappointed than anything that Sherlock hadn't kept his advice at heart.

"I can't just turn it on and off like a tap," Sherlock defended himself as he took the plastic bags with his belongings from the custody officer.

"Well?" Sherlock turned to look at them.

"Well what?" Kyrie asked.

"You were there for the whole thing. Up in the gallery, start to finish," Sherlock said.

"Oh that," John said, "Like you said it would be. The defending barrister just sat on his backside, never even stirred."

Sherlock nodded. "Moriarty's not mounting any defence."

They were guided to a back exit of the building. Sherlock didn't hesitate when he opened the door. He was usually much more reluctant to face a wild horde of nosy journalists. Surprisingly enough, no journalists were there.

She cast a quizzical look in his direction, but he simply placed his hand against the small of her back to quickly lead her to the waiting police car. She squinted her eyes at him. He'd known that no journalists would be waiting for them. She knew only one man powerful enough to temporary stave off the news. Mycroft.

During the drive back home, the boys took apart every detail of all that happened recently. Kyrie was distracted and didn't pay them a whole lot of attention. She couldn't help but keep looking over her shoulder, look through the windows, wondering where Gerulf was and what he was up to now.

" _Irene Adler was a two-pronged attack."_ Kyrie remembered Mycrofts words. Was this as well? She could only relax when the police car finally drove into Baker Street and dropped them off in front of their flat.

Sherlock and John easily continued their discussion as they walked through the door, climbed up the steps and dropped into the living room.

"Bank of England, Tower of London, Pentonville. Three of the most secure places in the country and six weeks ago Moriarty breaks in. No one knows how or why."

Kyrie walked over to the sofa and began to loosen the straps on her heels. John flopped down onto his armchair while Sherlock started to pace, his fingers steepled in front of his face.

"All we know is..."

"... he ended up in custody," Sherlock finished. He stopped pacing and cast a meaningful look at John. Kyrie smiled seeing that look of mild annoyance briefly flicker in John's eyes.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?" Sherlock furrowed his brows in confusion.

"The look."

"Look?" If at all possible, he furrowed his brows even more.

"You're doing the look again."

"Well, I can't see it, can I?" Sherlock remarked dryly.

"Really, Sherlock?" Kyrie laughed. "There's a mirror like, right next to you. Maybe you could... Oh, I don't know... use that?"

John smirked at her as Sherlock muttered, "Impertinent." But, he did turn his head and looked at his reflection.

"It's my face," he said, stating the obvious.

"Yes, and it's doing a thing. You're doing a 'We both know what's really going on here' face."

"Well, we do."

"No, _I_ don't, which is why I find The Face so annoying."

"That Face is not annoying, John. It looks perfectly fine to me," Kyrie said. "Besides, he has a Face that is much, much more annoying than whatever it is that you dislike in this Face."

"Oh?" John asked. "What Face would that be? I think this one is definitely annoying. Well, it is for me at least.

"Never seen the 'I want a case and I want it now!' Face?"

"Right," John agreed, "That one definitely takes the cake. This is a close second though."

"All right, if we can please move past... my face," Sherlock said in equal disgust as surprise. "To explain... If Moriarty wanted the Jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in a prison cell right now, is because he chose to be there."

"Somehow, this is part of his scheme."

SSS

The next day, Kyrie and John attended the trial by themselves as Sherlock had gotten himself banned from court. They looked at each other in confusion when the defending barrister simply stated that they were not calling any witnesses. Defence simply rested.

It was the discussion of the evening at 221B Baker Street. Kyrie had finally prepared the Cape Malay chicken she had wanted to make a while back. The entire flat was filled with the enticing aromas of chicken, cumin, coriander, cinnamon, pepper and cardamom. It was enough to lure out Mrs Hudson as well. Kyrie smiled handing her a plate with the curry and a small bowl with a green salad.

John groaned in appreciation and anticipation when Kyrie set the plates down on a cleared out kitchen table. She set a huge bowl filled with the curry on the table and next to it an equally large bowl of saffron rice. And of course a salad bowl with the green salad.

At first Sherlock was determined not to eat anything, claiming he was on a 'case'. Kyrie told him off, said he was not on a case at all. The only 'case' he'd been on was the one in which he was a star witness at the trial, but now he was banned from court so he had no excuse to not eat. He finally conceded and accepted the plate. It was empty in moments.

Though Sherlock was usually the one to hog all the cookies, John was the one who could really put a dent in the food. He could happily devour two servings, three even if he could get away with it.

"My God, Kyrie," he said between mouthfuls, "This is amazing. And you really wonder why I never cook any more?"

"Oh, I don't know, John," she said with a smile, "Your mushy peas with fish and chips is pretty unbeatable!"

John chuckled, "Oh yes, mushy peas. Big achievement!"

"Honestly John, this isn't exactly a big achievement either. Want me to show you?

"Nope," he said with a grin. "You cooking suits me just fine. I'll even gladly do the dishes for you."

"Spoiled brat," she said with a fond smile.

They briefly exchanged an amused look when they caught Sherlock stealing bits from her plate. Neither of them commented on it. He had peculiar eating habits and was also a picky eater. Any normal food they could get inside of him that wasn't fish and chips or cookies, was a victory in its own right.

"So, Crayhill didn't call any witnesses?" Sherlock asked as he popped a piece of chicken in his mouth and chewed while deep in thought. Kyrie slyly served another portion of curry and rice on her plate.

"I know right?" John said with a smile as Kyrie used her fork to pull the meat away from the bones and then dropped the bones onto a separate plate.

"Even though he entered a plea of 'Not Guilty'... no witnesses called, no evidence given, no nothing," he continued.

"There is something that I'm not seeing... yet," Sherlock said as he picked at another piece of chicken.

It was a nice quiet evening for once. Maybe a bit too quiet as Sherlock seemed a bit subdued after dinner. Even though John and Sherlock were safe at home for once, not running all over London chasing after some criminal, Kyrie felt a bit off as well.

She just couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to happen. Something big. And she kept hearing Mycroft's voice... _"The stage is set."_ She looked over at Sherlock who was seated in his armchair, his fingers steepled under his chin as he stared blankly into space. He felt it too, she could tell. There was a wind of change coming and Kyrie had a foreboding feeling that she wouldn't like it at all.

SSS

The next day, much like the previous day, Kyrie and John were of to the Old Bailey. The moment the verdict was in, John would let him know. Sherlock was reclining in the sofa. He had his back against the arm nearest to the window, his legs stretched out in front of him and his blue dressing gown pulled closely around him.

He thought back to the previous evening. He knew Kyrie suspected something. She somehow sensed that something big was going on. He felt a... sadness, feeling of melancholy deep in side him. This was just the beginning. He knew that. And things were soon going to get much, much worse.

It was about that time. Sherlock imagined himself to be there in the court room, almost hearing the only words the judge could possible say.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. James Moriarty stands accused of several counts of attempted burglary. Crimes which, if he's found guilty, will elicit a very long custodial sentence and yet... his legal team has chosen to offer no evidence whatsoever to support their plea. I find myself in the unusual position of recommending a verdict wholeheartedly. You must find him guilty."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Guilty," he said on a whisper.

He kept his eyes closed, waiting for John's phone call. He didn't have to wait very long. Just a couple of minutes. The moment John's personalised ring tone chimed, the sound of an old fashioned phone, Sherlock's eyes flew open. The moment of truth!

The moment he accepted the call, John immediately started talking. "Not Guilty. They found him _not_ guilty! No defence, and Moriarty's walked free," John sounded absolutely gob-smacked.

"What the hell is wrong with these people!" Kyrie yelled into the phone.

Sherlock stared ahead of him, his hand holding the phone slowly dropping into his lap.

"Sherlock, are you listening?" John asked. "He's out. You... you know he'll be coming after you. Sher..."

He disconnected the call and got up from the sofa. He walked over to the kitchen and started rummaging through Kyrie's modest but diverse tea selection. He ignored the Assam and the Darjeeling, not the Sencha either... Definitely not her favourite Chai. Not the Lapsang Souchong either... His eyes fell onto a black Ceylon tea blend and a Kenyan tea blend. He didn't know the difference between them, Kyrie was the resident tea buff, but after taking a quick whiff he settled for the Kenyan tea.

He switched on the kettle, slammed a small try near it on the kitchen counter and proceeded to put a jug of milk, a teapot with three full scoops of the Kenyan tea leaves, and two cups and saucers on the tray and a tea strainer over one of the cups.

Sherlock walked to his bedroom to get rid of his dressing gown and by the time he returned the kettle came to a boil and switched of. He added the water to the tea and brought the tray with him to the small table next to John's chair. That would just have to do.

He picked up his violin and bow and started to play Bach's Sona No.1 in G minor. He was preparing himself for a visit. While playing, Sherlock paid close attention to every detail he could see and hear.

Like the creaking of one of the stair steps as his visitor made his way up. Like the creaking of the door being pushed open. Sherlock stopped playing.

"Most people knock."

He shrugged lightly, "But then you're not most people, I suppose." Sherlock was still standing with his back towards the door. He pointed his bow over his shoulder. "Kettle's just boiled," he informed his enemy almost pleasantly.

Sherlock heard Jim Moriarty walk further into the room. Hmm, he just treated himself to one of the apples from the bowl on the coffee table. The bowl that, strangely enough, never seemed to run out of apples.

"John Sebastian would be appalled," Jim said in a bored tone and looked around as if searching for a place to sit.

"May I?" he asked.

Sherlock turned to face him. "Please," he said, pointing his bow at John's chair. Jim walked around it to sit in Sherlock's own chair instead. Sherlock couldn't entirely keep the annoyance about this rudeness away.

Moriarty took out a small penknife and started to cut into the apple as Sherlock poured him a cup of tea.

"You know when he was on his death bed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces."

Sherlock removed the tea strainer to his own cup and poured himself some tea.

"The boy stopped before he got to the end..."

"... and the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it," Sherlock concluded the famous story, sounding just a bit bored.

"Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody."

"Neither can you. That's why you've come."

"But to be honest... You're just a tiny bit pleased," Jim said.

Sherlock added a splash of milk to his tea. "What, with the verdict?" he asked and handed the tea to Jim.

"With me... Back on the streets," he said on a whisper, looking up at Sherlock and smiling.

"Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain," he smirked at Sherlock. Sherlock didn't reply, just turned around to add milk to his own cup.

"You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I. Except you're boring," Jim said and he shook his head in disappointment. "You're on the side of the angels." He took a sip of his tea.

"Oh," he suddenly said. "I like this. Usually I get some wishy washy insipid blend. But that's not you, is it?"

"My wife picked it," Sherlock said as he took his own cup and stirred the tea. He looked at Jim for any reaction to the mention of Kyrie. "She's the tea buff here."

Jim smiled at him. "Yes, the lovely Kyrie Ellison. Strange, I never considered you to be the marrying type. So, she managed to catch your fancy then?"

"She did," Sherlock lied easily. He knew Jim would see straight through him, but he would not go ahead and openly admit the marriage was not as a marriage usually was.

"Interesting," Jim said, taking another sip.

"So, you got to the jury, of course," Sherlock said, changing the direction of the conversation.

"I got into the Tower of London. You think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?"

Sherlock smiled as he suddenly realised. "Cable Network."

Jim nodded. "Ever hotel bedroom has a personalised TV screen. And every person has their pressure point... someone that they want to protect from harm. Easy-peasy." Jim said as he lifted the teacup to his lips.

Sherlock slowly unbuttoned his jacket before he went to sit down in John's chair. He did not like the way Jim had brought that comment. It almost sounded like a threat.

"I've become very familiar lately, with... pressure points," Jim continued, staring at Sherlock intently. "And how to use them."

"So you've shown, with the jury," Sherlock said, though he had a suspicion Jim was not only talking about the jury. Sherlock also brought his cup to his lips. "So, how're you going to do it..." he gently blew on his tea, "Burn me?"

"Oh, that's the problem. The final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet?"

Sherlock sipped his tea and stared at the other man as he held the cup to his lips.

"What's the final problem?" he smiled at Sherlock over his own cup.

"I did tell you. But did you listen?" he asked in a soft, sing-song voice. He took another sip and then put the cup down into the saucer. He put his hand on his knee and idly started drumming his fingers. The movement caught Sherlock's attention.

"How hard do you find it? Having to say... 'I don't know?" Jim asked, still drumming his fingers.

Sherlock put his cup down into its saucer as well and shrugged. "I dunno," he said in a bored tone.

"Oh, that's clever. That's very clever," Jim said using a mock upper-class accent. "Awfully clever.

Sherlock smiled, almost in good humour, as he put his cup back onto the tray.

"Speaking of clever... Have you told your little friends yet?"

"Told them what?" Sherlock asked as he placed his fingers together and lightly pressed them against his lips.

"Why I broke into all those places and never took anything."

"No," he answered quietly.

"But you understand," Jim stated.

"Obviously."

"Off you go, then," Jim said and he popped a piece of apple he'd just sliced into his mouth.

"You want me to tell you what you already know?"

"No, I want you to prove that you know it," Jim countered.

"You didn't take anything because you don't need to," Sherlock asserted.

"Good," Jim said approvingly.

"You'll never need to take anything ever again.

"Very good. Because...?"

"Because nothing. Nothing in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three.

"I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as private bank account now. They're all mine. No such thing as secrecy. I _own_ secrecy."

Sherlock's eyes widened a bit as Jim specifically mentioned the secrecy bit. How much did he know? Was Gerulf his client? And if so, how much had he told him, how much proof did he have?

"Nuclear codes," Jim continued. "I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world with locked rooms, the man with the key is king. And honey, you should see me in a crown," Jim closed his eyes in delight.

"You were advertising all the way through the trial. You were showing the world what you can do," Sherlock said smiling, resting his hands on the arms of the chair. He now he realised what Jim had been doing and he couldn't help but admire the man.

"And you were helping," Jim said. Sherlock's smile vanished with those words. How could he have been helping Moriarty?

"Big client list... Rogue governments, intelligence communities... terrorist cells. They all want me," Jim said as he popped another slice of apple into his mouth with the penknife. "Suddenly, I'm Mr Sex."

"If you could break any bank, what do you care about the highest bidder?"

"I don't. I just like to watch them _all_ competing. 'Daddy loves _me_ the best!'" he said in a mocking voice. "Aren't ordinary people _adorable_? Well, you know...You've got John. You've even gone domesticated on me and gotten yourself a little wife," Jim said with a grin. "Do you really stalk your _dear_ at night, wearing nothing but the hat? Or do you have other _appetites_?"

Sherlock's knuckles went white as he gripped the arms of the chair a bit too tightly.

"Do you even have an _appetite_ , for _that_?" Jim asked him, raising his brows at him.

"I'm married, what do you think?" Sherlock deflected the question.

Jim shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not married, I wouldn't know. I ask because there's an interested party. I'm sure you can guess who."

"Gerulf Schricken."

"Good, you do know. Completely obsessed with your little wife, but SO boring! But, tell me, how is the married life? What is it like? Do you like to spoon with her? Do you like it when she makes sure your clothes are always clean. How she bakes you cookies and makes you dinner? Do you like how she dresses, how she smells... what she feels like? She must be _so_ convenient to have around. I should get myself a live-in one," Jim said with mock envy.

"Why are you doing all of this?" Sherlock asked on a whisper.

"It'd be so funny." Jim still seemed stuck on the whole 'live-in human pet' idea.

"You don't want money or power – not really." At this point Sherlock didn't know if he was actually asking Jim questions, or if he was just mulling over several different thoughts at the same time.

Jim was quiet for a bit, allowing Sherlock his inner thought process. He stabbed his penknife deep into the juicy flesh of the apple.

"What is it all for?" Sherlock asked him, slowly and in a measured manner of speaking.

"I want to solve the problem. Our problem. The final problem," Jim answered him in a quiet but grave voice. He lowered his head, focussing his attention on the damn apple again. What was he doing with it? Other than a few bites, he was just holding it or stabbing at it.

"It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock... The fall..." Jim suddenly looked up again and slowly lowered his gaze towards the floor, while whistling a slowly descending note in quite an ominous way.

"But don't be scared. Falling is just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination." He kept his gaze on Sherlock as he enunciated the sound of something thudding to the ground as if he wanted to make sure that Sherlock understood exactly what he was talking about.

Their eyes met. They stared at each other for a moment. Sherlock's mouth opened a bit, as though a gasp wanted to escape, but he quelled the involuntary action and slightly bared his teeth instead.

Suddenly, Sherlock raised himself from the armchair and buttoned up his jacket again, indicating their little meeting was over. "Never liked riddles," he said, watching as Jim stood up as well, straightened his jacked and squared his shoulders.

"Learn to," Jim said, staring into Sherlock's eyes with an intense look. "Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I... owe... you..." His eyes showed his words weren't just empty threats, but a promise he was committed to. He slowly turned around to leave Sherlock by himself.

Sherlock didn't move. Only when he was certain that Jim had left the flat, did he move towards the apple that Jim had left behind, the penknife still sticking out in it. He picked up the apple by lifting up the knife handle and took a good look at it. Jim had left quite some piece of art. There was a circular piece missing from the apple, where Jim had carved out the flesh of the fruit. To the left of it there was another shape in the form of the letter I. To the right of it, a shape in the form of the letter U.  
I O U. Sherlock looked up, one corner of his mouth slowly lifting. The game was on!


	28. Just a bit jealous

**A/N Here's another chapter. I hope you enjoy. I certainly enjoyed writing this! Now, I've got some good news for those who were hoping to see Kyrie make an appearance in The Abominable Bride. You see, at first I planned to skip that episode because I felt Kyrie just didn't FIT in it. But... I found a way! Can't wait to bring that eppie about! But, first we have to get through the Fall safe and sound. Well... not safe... and certainly not sound... It will be a ride!**

SSS

It was several weeks, two months, after Jim Moriarty had been released. At first the newspapers had a ball with the story. After all, how was it possible that a criminal walked free, after having put up no defence at all at the 'Trial of the Century? All the newspapers had an opinion, even the Prime Minister had an outspoken opinion that wasn't too kind on the British Parliament and judiciary system.

After a while the story lost its appeal and people began to wonder about other things, like what else was in store for Sherlock Holmes the Reichenbach hero, or whether Bachelor John Watson was in fact still a bachelor. There were even some sleazy tabloids suggesting that the entire dynamic between all three of them was 'more' then they 'let on'.

As if that wasn't bad enough, some journalist named Kitty Riley seemed to be on a personal vendetta against Sherlock. She was wetting the appetite of the public, announcing she had an upcoming exclusive story for The Sun... A juicy exposé in which she would denounce Sherlock as a fraud, based on the inside knowledge of Richard Brook, an out-of-work actor and 'close friend' who claimed to have been hired by Sherlock to fool the British public into believing he had above-average 'detective skills'. Kyrie decided it was a load of tosh, but the blatant lies made her angry anyway.

Kyrie walked down the streets of London in a fowl mood, carrying two grocery bags. She was going to prepare beef stifado a day ahead and a simple penne cacio e pepe for this evening. She didn't understand how Sherlock did it. He usually jumped right in front of a taxi, held up his hand, making the taxi come to a screeching halt. When she tried it, the taxi barely swerved out of her way, while the cabbie honked at her in anger as if she were some raving lunatic.

Sherlock and John would better not be making any comments about the beef stifado or penne, unless they were glowing compliments, or they could take turns in cooking themselves! Of course, her phone decided to ring at that exact moment. Kyrie rolled her eyes recognising the melody. She looked around her and noticed a building nearby with stone steps leading up to the entrance. She quickly walked over to it, put her bags down before she pulled out her phone.

"Hel..." She couldn't even finish her greeting as Mycroft was already complaining to her from his end of the line.

"How can you be friends with that country bumpkin doctor?" Mycroft blared in her ear. Kyrie held the phone away from her ear.

"Good day to you too, Mycroft," she drawled, imitating her brother-in-law the best she could. "Why do you have your knickers in a twist this time?"

"That little friend of yours," Mycroft bit out, "I simply asked him to look out for my dear brother... You know how I worry." Kyrie rolled her eyes at that.

"Why does he have to be so difficult about it?"

"And of course you asked him in the nicest way possible?"

"Of course!" Mycroft said, sounding appalled. Kyrie smiled. She had a pretty good idea what Mycroft considered to be 'the nicest way possible'.

"What's going on, My?" she asked him quietly. "Why did you feel it was necessary to ask John to keep an eye on Sherlock? Is it Gerulf? Or this... Moriarty fellow?"

"Moriarty... you know they have a history, don't you?" Mycroft asked her. "He made a promise he'd come back."

"Yes," Kyrie agreed. "I know. I overheard John say the same thing that first day I came to Baker Street. After that, all my information came from either you, John or the tidbits that Sherlock decided to share. What of it?"

"It seems that some highly trained killers have recently taken up residence in Baker Street. To be exact, _four_ top international assassins just happen to relocate to within spitting distance of two hundred and twenty-one B."

"Four... international... assassins..." Kyrie repeated slowly, not sure if she'd heard her brother-in-law correctly. "You know, Mycroft, you do realise – I hope – information like that really does not help me sleep at night?"

"It's not hard to guess the common denominator," Mycroft said gravely.

"No, it really isn't..."

"I'm glad you agree," Mycroft said. "Your little friend John doesn't seem to think it's Moriarty. He says that if it were... you'd be dead already."

"I really don't know anyone else, except maybe Gerulf, with either enough power or financial means to persuade four assassins to get involved. It has to be him, this is not some weird coincidence."

"Moriarty is as obsessed with Sherlock as Gerulf is obsessed with you, though for different reasons, or so I hope... He's sworn to to destroy his only rival."

"And of course, Sherlock is not taking any of this seriously."

"Exactly."

Kyrie sighed for a moment, wondering how life had suddenly become so complicated. "What can I do?" she asked.

For a moment Mycroft didn't speak, he just sighed wistfully. "I don't know. I suppose you can't convince my little brother to leave Baker Street?"

"I don't think there's a force, natural or otherwise, strong enough to convince him to do that."

"Thought as much. Well then, at least keep me appraised, will you?"

"Of course, My," she said. "You're not the only one who worries, you know."

"I know," he said simply. "Thank you, for being there for him. He's... " Mycroft didn't seem to know how to finish that. Kyrie had a feeling there was a warning in Mycroft's words somewhere.

" _The stage is set."_ Mycroft's words that kept haunting her and she was too afraid to ask what they meant.

"Yeah... Bye, My..." Kyrie said before she ended the call. A shiver ran down her spine and she felt queasy. She picked up the grocery bags and quickly tried to make her way back to Baker Street.

" _The stage is set..."_ Jim Moriarty wearing a crown... Moriarty, walking out of Old Bailey, a free man... Richard Brook the out-of-work actor, telling lies about Sherlock... _Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall..._

Kyrie picked up the pace. _Humpty Dumpty had a great fall..._ Her heart raced in her throat by the time she reached Baker Street. _All the king's horses and all the king's men..._ She looked around her, carefully watching the people she saw walking around. Was that man a killer? That woman? _Couldn't put Humpty together again..._

Kyrie balanced one grocery bag against the door of their flat, fishing the keys from her pocket. The moment the door opened, she quickly grabbed the bag and practically ran inside, giving the door a violent shove with her foot. She climbed the steps as fast as her feet allowed her while carrying the bags. Once she made it through the kitchen door, Kyrie leaned against the door, her heart beating violently in her chest. And then she started laughing. She was such an idiot!

She put the grocery bags on the kitchen table and started to put the groceries away. Mycroft had just rattled her with his talk about assassins, that was all.

Suddenly the door behind her slammed open and Kyrie shrieked in fear. She dropped the carton of milk she was holding and swiftly whipped around, just in time to see Sherlock catch the milk carton before it could splash against the floor.

"What's gotten into you?" he asked her, looking at her as if she'd gone crazy.

Kyrie heaved a deep sigh of relief, her hand pressed to her chest to calm her heart.

"Shit, Sherlock! You scared the living daylights out of me."

"Been talking with my dear brother again?" he asked with a smirk as he placed the milk on the kitchen table.

"Yes," Kyrie admitted unwillingly as she grabbed the milk and placed it in the refrigerator with a pointed look.

"Don't worry," Sherlock said while patting her on the back. "Talking with him too often or for too long will do that to you. You start seeing or hearing things," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"Where's John?" she asked in a clipped tone, wanting to change the subject. She already knew that the Holmes brother's did not get along well. She would not get roped into a conversation of one brother bad-mouthing the other. She loved them both.

"Oh," Sherlock said and he jumped a bit to look behind him. "Right, in the taxi, waiting outside. He figured you'd be back by now. There's been a kidnapping, I found clues. We're headed to Bart's now. Coming?"

Kyrie had to make a quick decision. Sherlock had already left the kitchen and would no doubt order the cabbie to go the moment he was inside the taxi, whether she was in it or not. So, join the boys in Bart's so she could watch Sherlock peer through a microscope for hours on end? Or wait inside the flat waiting for one of the four assassins to make a move? She quickly turned around and bounded down the stairs after Sherlock.

SSS

Sherlock walked ahead of them toward the building of St. Bartholomew's hospital.

"What happened again?" Kyrie asked curiously.

"The children of Rufus Bruhl," John explained. "Ambassador to the U.S. His son and daughter were kidnapped at St. Aldate's. Max and Claudette. Um, school broke up, all the boarders went home. Just a few children remained, including Max and Claudette. And, the ambassador asked for Sherlock personally."

"Well, to be honest," Kyrie said, deep in thought, "If someone close to me was taken, I'd ask for him as well. He can be an arrogant prick, but damn, he can solve cases like it's nobody else's business."

"Amen to that," John said with a smirk.

"If you are done being astounded by intellectual skills, can we please just get on with it?" Sherlock had held back and obviously heard enough of their conversation. Though his voice sounded bored and annoyed, his eyes glinted green and gold. He was secretly pleased with the flattery.

Sherlock led them towards an emergency exit of the hospital with an air and self-assurance that told Kyrie he knew exactly where he was going. They went inside and Sherlock pushed open the fire doors, just as a young woman was about to go through them.

"Molly!" Sherlock greeted her jovially.

Molly... the name rang a bell.

"Oh, hello. I'm just going out," Molly said, looking and sounding a bit perplexed. Ah... that look, the nerves... she'd been at the Christmas party. Oh Lord... She was the one who... Okay, this could get a bit awkward.

Sherlock placed his hands on Molly's shoulders and immediately turned her back in the direction she just came from.

"No, you're not," he simply said.

"I've got a lunch date," she tried to object feebly.

"Cancel it," Sherlock said, lightly pushing her in the back to get her to move again. "You're having lunch with me." With those words he suddenly procured a bag of Quavers crisps from each pocket of his coat and held them up briefly before putting them back again.

"Do you always walk around, carrying bags of crisps in your pockets?" Kyrie wanted to know.

"Only when I think I need a nibble during a case."

"Or a bribe?"

"Or a bribe," he conceded.

"What?" Molly asked, completely bewildered.

"Need your help," Sherlock explained. "It's one of your old boyfriends. We're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty."

"It's Moriarty?" John asked when they reached the fire doors at the end of the corridor.

"Course it's Moriarty," Sherlock said as he opened the doors.

"Er, Jim actually wasn't even my boyfriend. We went out three times. _I_ ended it," Molly said, putting a bit of emphasis on who had done the ending bit.

"Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organised a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."

"Sherlock... rude!" Kyrie admonished him.

"Who is she?" Molly asked Sherlock, then seemed to re-think her question as she directed her gaze to Kyrie. "Who are you?"

"I think we've met before?" Kyrie offered Molly her hand. "At the Christmas party? I'm Kyrie." She didn't introduce herself as Holmes, sensing it could be a bit of a tender point for the young woman.

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said. "Introductions... Um, Kyrie this is Molly Hooper, my favourite pathologist. Molly, this is Kyrie, my wife. Coming?" Sherlock pulled out and brandished a bag of Quavers at her again before he and John vanished through the fire door.

Kyrie was left standing there with Molly. From the way Kyrie could see her eyes were glistening, Molly's world had just come falling down and she kind of wished that Sherlock hadn't become so comfortable in referring to her as his wife, when before it had just made him cringe.

"You're... his wife?" Molly asked her in a bit of a weird high-pitched voice.

Kyrie sighed. How was she to steer safely through these treacherous waters? "Yes," she stated rather simply and then cringed slightly when she noticed how Molly breathed out as if she'd just received a blow to her gut.

"Wow," Molly said. Kyrie noticed her lips were trembling a bit, trying to curve into a nervous smile, but not quite getting there. "Married to Sherlock... that's... quite something, isn't it?" Molly licked her lips and clutched at her side as if she was in pain.

Kyrie couldn't help but notice the drab clothes... the girlish white vest adorned with cherries and red buttons, clashing horribly with the busy floral print of her blouse with peter pan collar, the shapeless pants hanging around her like a bag and the equally unimpressive coat. It was like she was trying to hide herself.

"It was... unexpected," Kyrie decided to say. "He... we... wanted to keep it quiet, not make a fuss about it."

"Right," Molly said. "Right... because, with a big wedding and ceremony and party there would have been... invitations?"

"Of course. It was a private affair. Just family."

"How... how did you meet?" Molly asked her, but Kyrie could read the real question in her eyes. How had she managed to draw his attention, make him fall in love with her and propose to her? If only she knew.

"Through his brother," she explained. Well, it was sort of true. Molly nodded, pretending to understand though the glazed look in her eyes told Kyrie she was just trying to be brave.

"Molly, there were... certain circumstances, personal circumstances, that forced us in this arrangement" Kyrie suddenly blurted out. "It's, um... Neither he, or I, chose for this, the marriage I mean. We sort of, had to."

Probably not the wisest thing to do, but she felt terrible for this young woman who had obviously crushed hard on Sherlock.

"So, he doesn't really love you then?" Molly asked, sounding almost hopeful. Kyrie felt bad for her. Even though she now knew that Sherlock was married, Molly seemed to want to at least cling to the thought that Sherlock hadn't married out of love and in fact, still didn't love her.

"No, he doesn't," Kyrie said, even though the words cut through her own heart quite painfully. But, painful or not, Kyrie knew the words to be true. She did hope that somewhere in that heart of his, that was so wholly governed by his head, there at least was some form of affection for her. Other than that, she had no illusion those few stolen kisses meant anything for him.

"I'm so sorry, that sounds horrible... being forced to marry," Molly suddenly said, though she made it sound as if she would have loved nothing more than to trade places with Kyrie.

"It was difficult, yes, but... we get along and that's makes it easier. A bit. But, please, Molly. It's very important you tell no one." Kyrie could see the look on Molly's face fall a bit. No doubt Molly would have loved to spread the word that Sherlock had been forced to marry and didn't really love Kyrie. That way she could pretend she had not been slighted and maybe even cling to the fantasy that maybe Sherlock could still come to love her instead.

"If word got out and the wrong people would find out, it could make things very dangerous... for Sherlock."

Molly paled hearing those words. Kyrie knew she could at least rely on the fact that Molly's concern for Sherlock's well-being would outweigh her desire to tell people that Sherlock had not wed her for love.

"No, of course not..." Molly shook her head vehemently, "I won't tell a soul, I swear!"

"Thank you, Molly. Now, what do you say. Shall we find the boys?"

Molly showed her to the lab as Kyrie did not know her way around the vast place. They found the boys in what Molly called 'his favourite lab'. Sherlock was already sitting at the bench in front of a microscope and John was arranging a couple of crime scene stills.

Molly disappeared for a bit but came back shortly. She had dressed herself in her lab coat and was struggling, trying to push her way through the door while being weighed down by a huge pile of books and files. She walked in precariously, trying to balance it all without toppling over. Kyrie rolled her eyes at both Sherlock and John. Sherlock seemed entirely oblivious to whether Molly was coming or going and John was also too preoccupied to notice how she was struggling.

Kyrie quickly walked over and grabbed the top half of Molly's burden. Molly looked up at her in surprise and tried to smile, but the smile became not much more than an awkward grimace.

"Oil, John," Sherlock told his friend. Kyrie realised she had just walked in on the moment where Sherlock explained what he was doing, what he was looking for or how he had arrived at one of his conclusions.

"The oil in the kidnapper's footprint..." Sherlock opened a plastic Petry dish and took out a sample of... something... with a pair of tweezers. "It'll lead us to Moriarty."

Kyrie looked on as Sherlock dropped the sample into a test tube that held some solution or liquid at in the bottom. The fluid responded immediately, it began to fizz and bubble. Once the reaction had died down, Sherlock used a pipette to suction up some of the liquid and dropped in onto a slide.

"All the chemical traces on his shoe have been preserved. The sole of the shoe is like a passport. If we're lucky we can see everything that he's been up to."

Kyrie looked at Sherlock and Molly with interest. It was clear that they worked really well together. No doubt that over time they had established some form of cadence in their actions, becoming attuned to each other in quite a professional manner, though Sherlock of course did retain that overbearing attitude.

Some time passed as Sherlock studied the slide under the microscope and Molly gave assistance wherever she could. She was putting on a pair of nitrile gloves when Sherlock gave her a quick order.

"I need that analysis," he told her.

Molly nodded and set to work. She squeezed some liquid into a glass dish and applied a Ph strip to it. The strip turned bright cobalt blue. "Alkaline," she told Sherlock.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock muttered. Kyrie rolled her eyes in exasperation. Not getting her name right was one thing, but mistaking her gender as well?

"Molly," the young woman replied a bit testily.

"Yes," Sherlock said as if he really couldn't care less. Molly turned around looking really unhappy about it. Kyrie walked over to her as Sherlock scribbled down a note.

"Hey, don't mind him," she told her softly, "It took him six months, if not longer, to even get my name right. And sometime I have a sneaking suspicion he just calls me 'wife' because it saves him the trouble of trying to remember my actual name."

Molly's lips quirked in a smile and she giggled a bit, making Sherlock look up at them, just briefly, before he took another sample and dissolved it. Kyrie went to stand next to him to see what he was doing and read his notes.

1\. Chalk

2\. Asphalt

3\. Brick dust

4\. Vegetation

He seemed to be stuck a bit on whatever he was looking at now. Deciding not to pester him by breathing or even thinking too loudly in his presence, Kyrie joined John as he was looking over the different police photographs taken at the school.

She noticed how Molly walked up to Sherlock and tried to engage him in conversation. Kyrie could hardly fault her from trying to get the few crumbs she could get. She turned her attention to John as a thought struck her.

"John?" she said trying to get his attention.

"Hmm?" he replied without taking his eyes off the photographs.

"Moriarty is behind the kidnapping, that's what Sherlock thinks, right?"

"Mm," he said.

"Don't you think it's... odd?"

Now John looked up at her.

"Odd? What is?"

"Who really left the clues, John? According to Sherlock that boy used linseed to write a message on the wall and smeared the wooden floor with it so the killer would leave a trail. That's clever. Don't you think that's awfully clever? Young boy, scared out of his wits, thinking of doing all that right before he and he's sister are taken? Did that boy really leave those clues? Or was it someone else? Someone who would want to make sure those clues were actually there for Sherlock to find, perhaps?"

"The clues were planted," John realised and he quickly scanned through the photographs as if something jogged his memory. Kyrie looked up briefly when Molly suddenly walked out of the lab. Looking at Sherlock, she saw he had a puzzled look on his face. She sighed, he probably just put his foot in his mouth again.

"Here," John said suddenly and he pointed at a picture. Kyrie looked at the picture but found nothing that seemed of interest. "You were right. Kyrie, you are brilliant!"

Kyrie blinked in surprise. "I'm pretty sure I'm not, but thank you for your sentiment," she muttered at empty air as John already called out to Sherlock.

"Hmm?" Sherlock said looking up briefly before looking into the microscope again.

"This envelope that was in her trunk. There's another one," he said, walking over to where he had placed his jacket.

"What?"

"On our doorstep. Found it today." John took the envelope from his pocket and compared the seals.

"Yes, and look at that," John quickly marched over to Sherlock, showing him the picture and the envelope. "Look at that. Exactly the same seal."

Sherlock reached into the envelop and took something from it. Kyrie walked up to them for a better look and saw Sherlock rub something between his thumb and fingers.

"Breadcrumbs," he explained.

"Uh-huh. It was there when I got back."

Sherlock looked up, pondering this new bit of information. "A little trace of breadcrumbs," he said softly, almost as if to himself. "Hardback copy of fairy tales." His eyes widened in sudden realisation. "Two children led into the forest by a wicked father follow a little trail of breadcrumbs."

"That's 'Hansel and Gretel'. Kyrie was right... the clues were planted. But, what sort of kidnapper leaves clues?"

"The sort that likes to boast. The sort that thinks it's all a game. He sat in our flat and he said these exact words to me... 'Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain'. Wait, Kyrie got this?"

"Yeah, she said the clues felt planted, and they were. She was right."

"Huh," Sherlock said in surprise. "She's usually not this bright. How surprising."

"Sherlock, don't be rude or I will shatter all the glass in this lab with my voice," Kyrie told him.

He looked up and arched a brow at her. "I'd certainly like to see you try," he said, a lightly mocking smile turning up the corners of his lips.

"Now who's being impertinent?" she huffed.

Sherlock merely smiled and put down the envelope to adjust the microscope.

"The fifth substance," he said, "It's part of the tale." He looked in he microscope again and almost immediately looked up again when an idea struck him. "The witch's house!" he exclaimed.

"What?" John and Kyrie asked simultaneously

"The glycerol molecule... PGPR! That's the fifth substance!"

"What's that?"

"It's used in making chocolate!" Sherlock said as he leaped to his feet and hurried out of the lab.


	29. Growing Suspicions

**A/N**

 **Things are getting real guys! I hope you like reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

 **EllemichelleP I'm sorry! I don't want to kill you! Please don't die! The review section would get very lonely without you! ;-)**

 **Katt96 Don't worry, they secretly love each other. The Holmes boys just don't like to show they do.**

Sherlock quickly hailed a taxi for them and he ordered the driver to take them to Scotland Yard. He alerted Greg Lestrade they were on their way so from the moment they arrived, everything seemed to fold out in quick staccato movements.

Greg shoved a sheet of paper into Sherlock's hands as he lead them to what Kyrie assumed would be his department's main office. "This fax arrived an hour ago," Greg explained. Kyrie cast a quick glance at it and saw the awful words written on it. HURRY UP THEY'RE DYING! The word 'dying' was underlined. She tried the suppress a shiver.

"What have you got for us?" Greg asked them as they passed a few doors.

"Need to find a place in the city where all five of these things intersect," Sherlock told Greg as he handed him a piece of paper.

"Chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation... What the hell is this, chocolate?" he cried out in surprise as they entered the bullpen.

"I think we're looking for a disused sweet factory," Sherlock explained.

Kyrie looked at the madness that was going on around her... phones ringing incessantly, people muttering and flitting about. She detected Donovan and Anderson in the bullpen as well. Two of her least favourite persons. She couldn't help but scowl at them.

"We need to narrow that down. A sweet factory with asphalt?" Greg suggested.

"No. No, no, no. Too general. Need something more specific. Chalk, chalky clay... that's a far thinner band of geology."

From the way Sherlock stared intently at what seemed to be empty air, she knew he was using his Mind Palace, or maybe in this particular instance it was more of a 'Mind Map' to visualise the information and help him form a conclusion.

"Brick dust?" Greg said.

"Building site. Bricks from the 1950s," Sherlock said softly.

Greg rubbed his face in helpless despair. "There's thousands of building sites in London!"

Sherlock sighed annoyed. He didn't like it when people distracted him from his thought process. It was much better to just leave him alone when he was in his 'thinking zone'. Unfortunately not all people seemed to understand this about him.

"I've got people out looking," he said quickly.

"So have I!" Greg sounded a bit insulted. Sherlock ignored his remark and started pacing impatiently, as if he was waiting for something.

"Homeless network, faster than the police," he said, still pacing. "Far more relaxed about taking bribes."

Kyrie smiled seeing the snide smirk on his face and seeing Anderson briefly looking up from his work to roll his eyes. Sherlock's phone started beeping and chiming, alerting them to several incoming texts. He brandished his phone triumphantly at Greg while the messages continued to pour in.

Smiling smugly, he scrolled through the photographs he'd received and compared them to his 'Mind Map' until one of them caught his attention. When Kyrie glanced at his phone, she saw a close-up shot of a purple flower.

"John," Sherlock showed him the picture. "Rhododendron ponticum. It matches."

Sherlock focused on whatever he saw in front of him, adding the last bit of information. It didn't take him long at all to come up with an answer. "Addlestone," he breathed.

"What?" Greg asked in surprise.

"There's a mile of disused factories between the river and the park. It matches everything! Kyrie, stay here, we won't be long." Sherlock turned around and left in a hurry.

"Right, come on," Greg ordered his subordinates, not even once questioning Sherlock's logic. "Come on!" he hollered when Donovan didn't seem in a hurry to follow his first order. That seemed to get her attention as she jumped up and hurried after him.

SSS

Kyrie stayed behind to let Sherlock and the police do their job. She hoped they would be able to find those children, preferably safe and sound.

An officer came to collect her and brought her to a small receiving area where she could sit and wait for the others to return.

Sherlock was wrong about not being away for long. But, it also didn't take quite as long as Kyrie had expected. When they did return, Kyrie worried when she noticed only a young girl was rushed inside, wrapped in a shock blanket... there was no sign of the boy.

She covered her mouth with her hand in surprised shock, but she didn't want to disturb anyone, or distract anyone by asking unnecessary questions. It would not help the girl, it would not help the boy. What _would_ help, was to let these people do their jobs.

She looked out for John amidst the throng of people that rushed inside the back hall. She noticed Sherlock, as he stood quite taller than the others and Greg too. When she also spotted John, she quickly hurried after him.

She found them waiting outside one of the offices. Sherlock was pacing up and down near a water cooler, while John sat down, looking off in space, trying his best to ignore his friend. Sherlock looked utterly unapproachable. He had one of those looks on his face that seemed to scream 'Don't breathe near me, don't even think near me, it's distracting!'

"John?" she asked when she approached him. "What happened?"

He looked up at her with a sad smile. "He's a sick bastard, Kyrie. That's what happened. He... kidnapped the kids and fed them chocolates, wrapped in Mercury lined wrappers. He was slowly poisoning them. The hungrier they got, the more they ate..."

Kyrie didn't even know what to say to that. She just gasped and felt as if the wind got knocked right out of her.

"They've got the girl in there right now, under supervision of a councillor. The boy was rushed to the hospital."

The door of the office opened and both Greg and Donovan appeared from the room. "Right, then. The professionals have finished. If the amateurs wanna go in and have their turn..." Donovan didn't even try to keep the disdain in her voice to a minimum.

"Isn't it funny," Kyrie said coldly, turning to face Donovan. "How these _amateurs_ were able to do your job, where you... the _professionals_ couldn't? "

Greg cleared his throat a bit and Kyrie immediately held up her hands, signalling she'd back off. She couldn't resist sending Donovan a last nasty glare though.

"Now, remember, she's in shock and she's just seven years old, so anything you can do to..." Greg softly told Sherlock.

"...not be myself..." Sherlock finished his sentence for him.

Greg looked a bit uncomfortable, but could only agree. "Yeah. Might be helpful."

Sherlock turned around to look at John, and rolled his eyes in an overly dramatic way, just on the inside. He reached up and smoothed down the collar of his coat before leading John and the others inside.

Kyrie had to suppress as smile. She couldn't deny it, she quite loved it when Sherlock stalked about in his big Belstaff coat, his collar turned up, enhancing the mystery surrounding him and really making those cheekbones stand out. It was _so_ him. The fact that he actually flattened his collar because that was _not_ him, was oddly endearing.

Those thoughts disappeared the moment she heard the sounds of a little girl screaming come from inside the room. She immediately looked up, saw the door open and Greg practically pulling Sherlock away. "Out. Get out!" Greg hollored. The door slammed shut behind him, kind of muffling the sounds of the terrified screaming, but not by much.

Greg quickly guided them towards his office and Sherlock immediately walked towards a window with odd jerky movements. There was a hooded look in his eyes, one Kyrie had never seen before. Though they revealed little to his inner thoughts, Kyrie noticed that the little girl's screamed had touched a chord deep inside of him.

For a moment she thought to go to him, for a bit of mental and perhaps physical support with a gentle touch. One look at him made her quickly decide against it. In moments like these, Sherlock seemed to carry weight of the world on his shoulders and hell-bent on carrying that burden alone.

"Makes no sense," John told Greg. Kyrie looked up and saw Donovan casting glances in Sherlock's direction that she did not like at all.

"The kid's traumatised," Greg said. "Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper."

"So what's she said?" John asked.

"Hasn't uttered another syllable," Donovan remarked in a way that Kyrie liked even less. She looked at him in a really weird way, almost as if all of this was Sherlock's fault for some reason!

"And the boy?"

"No, he's unconscious. Still in intensive care."

"Well, don't let it get to you. I always feel like screaming when you walk into a room!" Greg said, trying to be funny to lighten the mood. "In fact, so do most people."

"I don't," Kyrie said softly. She knew Greg only meant it as a joke, but she also knew this was not the right time.

"No, of course not. I'm sorry... I didn't mean..." he started to stammer. He rubbed his neck with his hand and grinned a bit awkwardly. "Come one, let's just go," he finally said.

Sherlock finally turned around at those words. His eyes were pale blue and every hint of green and amber imaginable, as if his eyes couldn't settle on a colour. He still looked a bit dazed, as if he was replaying the events in his mind again.

With Greg out of earshot, Donovan suddenly stepped forward, glaring at Sherlock. "Brilliant work you did, finding those kids from just a footprint. It's really amazing."

"Thank you," he said in a rather subdued way.

" _Unbelievable_ ," she then added pointedly. That last comment made him stop in his tracks.

"You know what's unbelievable?" Kyrie suddenly said. "Your attitude. Whenever a case gets too tough for you to figure out yourself, the first person you come running to is Sherlock, _my husband_ ," Kyrie said through gritted teeth and putting a lot of emphasis on the words 'my husband'.

Donovan just stared at her, her lips parted in surprise.

Kyrie usually wasn't one to pick a fight, but when you messed with her family, you better not expect to be be able to walk away scot-free!

"He then does your job _for_ you and you can't even manage a thank you. I was there, in the lab, watching how he meticulously executed test after test until finally the samples he took yielded the results he was looking for. What exactly did you find out? What did you do with your time, while two children were scared, alone and getting poisoned?" Kyrie continued her livid rant. Her biting remarks actually made Donovan physically back away.

"Cause Sherlock again did your job _for_ you. And yes, he really did that from _just_ a footprint. So, when you said 'It's really amazing,' you really should have stopped right there. Because it _is_ amazing. _He_ is amazing." Kyrie glared at Donovan with unbridled fury, warning her with one stare that she better not try and have another go at Sherlock.

"Amen," John muttered. When Kyrie whipped around, he stared at her a bit oddly. "You really don't like Sally Donovan, do you?" he asked carefully as they walked away.

"I really, really, really, don't," Kyrie seethed. "Why?"

"Nothing," John mumbled. "Just... your eyes... just then..."

"For heaven's sake, John!" she spat, "Not the eyes thing again! It's the heterochromia, get over it!"

"... could have sworn you'd freeze her over."

Outside Sherlock quickly turned up his collar again, still looking completely out of it. It was John this time who hailed an approaching taxi. For some reason, John didn't even find it odd that Sherlock hadn't done it. As the taxi came closer and slowed down for them, Kyrie had to know what was going through his mind.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" she asked quietly.

"Thinking," he said. "This is my cab. You get the next one." Sherlock walked up to the taxi that just pulled up at the kerb and opened the door.

"Why?" John asked him, puzzled.

"You might talk." With those words Sherlock got inside and closed the door. Kyrie sighed as the taxi pulled away.

"He certainly has his moments, doesn't he?" she muttered. "Can you get us another cab, John? They won't stop for me."

"Sure they will, just look at them the way you just stared down Donovan. Not a cab that won't stop for you," John said with a smile. They walked down the road while looking out for another taxi.

"What you said right there," John said thoughtfully. "That was pretty amazing too. I think it's good for him to know he's not so alone as he thinks he is. How come you have such a dislike for Sally? And Philip for that matter?"

"Who's Philip?" Kyrie asked puzzled. That made John laugh out loud. "Anderson?" he said.

"Oh, him," she muttered darkly, then she was silent for a bit, trying to find the right words. "Remember when you told me about your first case with Sherlock? The Study in Pink?"

John smiled. "Yes, I do... Ah!" he exclaimed as he spotted another taxi and hailed it for them.

"You told me that, the first time you saw Donovan, she called Sherlock a freak and Anderson too was a condescending prick towards him. And then that case 'The Blind Banker'. Remember Sebastian Wilkes?"

"Of course," John said as he walked up to the taxi that pulled up. He let Kyrie get inside first before he got in and order the cabbie to take them to Baker Street.

"You told me that he said that he and his uni buddies used to hate Sherlock, because even back then Sherlock was so clever and observant and smart..."

"Yes, he was a genius, even back then. I get the point."

"No, I don't think you do, John," Kyrie said seriously. "No child is born so detached from feelings as Sherlock is... What is the one thing he prides most in himself?"

"His ego?" John deadpanned. It made Kyrie smile but she still poked him in the ribs.

"No, try again."

"Fine," John conceded. "His intellect."

"Exactly. And, what does he do with his intellect when he's not too busy solving cases?"

"Oh, he's a drama queen, he likes to show off," John immediately answered.

"Yes. He uses his intellect to impress people. He's not so cold and aloof as everyone thinks he is. You know that, I know that... He likes it when he is praised and valued for his intellect. But in uni, that completely backfired for him. And after uni... it's people like Donovan and Anderson that try to make him feel he's unwanted or undeserving in some way... And that's why I really don't like them."

"You know, Kyrie. I've said it before and I will say it again... Sherlock is one lucky man to have you. I mean, seriously... he has no clue how lucky he is!"

Kyrie smiled fondly at him and then leaned her head against his shoulder.

"I'm scared, John," she admitted. "I can't help but feel that a storm is coming. I keep hearing something that Mycroft said to me when I talked to him in Dartmoor. _'The stage is set'_. And recently I can't get this nursery rhyme out of my head..."

John wrapped his arm around her shoulders and gently rubbed her arm. "Which one?" he asked.

"I don't want to say," Kyrie said. "You'll think it's silly."

"Probably, but tell me anyway."

Kyrie closed her eyes and sighed... "Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king's horses and all the king's men. Couldn't put Humpty together again."

"That is weird," John agreed. "And maybe not... I mean, we did retrieve that Reichenbach falls painting. It's been a while, yes, but... Reichenbach falls, Humpty Dumpty falls... I dunno." John laughed a bit. "I really don't know, but don't worry, Kyrie. You'll be fine, he'll be fine. We'll all be fine, okay?"

"I hope so," Kyrie said, pushing herself upright again. The taxi had arrived at Baker Street. They were home. "Thanks, John. For listening." She pressed a light kiss against his cheek before she climbed out of the taxi.

John got out of the taxi right after her when suddenly a gunshot rang out in the dark. They both turned their heads trying to locate the sound, when they saw Sherlock, not too far away, spinning around, doing the exact same thing. Both Kyrie and John broke into a run to reach Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" John called out as he skidded next to him.

It didn't take long before the police and an ambulance arrived on the scene. John had a comforting arm around Kyrie as they watched the ambulance crew wheel the body away. Sherlock stood back a bit, holding himself with one arm in a self-comforting gestured, while he slightly twitched his fingers of his free hand. He had his 'I'm thinking look' going on.

"That... it's him. It's him. Sulejmani or something. Mycroft showed me his file. He's a big Albanian gangster lives two doors down from us," John told Sherlock.

"One of the four assassins," Kyrie mumbled. She shivered a bit.

"By now I no longer even wonder how you know these things," John said. "Mycroft?"

Kyrie nodded her head.

"He died because I shook his hand," Sherlock suddenly claimed.

"What do you mean?" John asked him.

"He saved my life but he couldn't touch me. Why?" And off he went, his coat billowing behind him. Kyrie and John shared a brief look before they sighed and went after him.

As they bounded up the stairs to their flat, Sherlock swiftly removed his scarf from his neck. "Four assassins living right on our doorstep," he started to explain. He marched into the living room and threw his scarf and coat on a chair. "They didn't come here to kill me. They have to keep me alive."

He seated himself behind his laptop on the dining table. "I've got something that all of them want, but if one of them approaches me..."

John walked over to the window behind Sherlock and peered outside. "The others kill them before they can get it," John finished for him.

Sherlock grunted something unintelligible, but it was probably safe to say he agreed with John. His fingers flew over the keys on the laptop, as he navigated away from the website for St. Aldate's School and called up a list of local Wi-Fi networks. Kyrie looked over his shoulder and saw there were five of them. Sherlock checked their signal strengths and Kyrie noticed that all network names looked to be foreign.

"All of the attention is focussed on me. There's a surveillance web closing in on us right now," he said quietly.

"But, what do you have that is so important?" Kyrie asked him.

Sherlock stopped and pondered the question for a moment, before he ran his finger along the table and then checked the results on his fingertip. "Kyrie, in the last week, what's been cleaned?"

Kyrie threw up her hands in defence. "Don't look at me. Last time I tried to clean something you threw a hissy fit. I don't dust, I don't clean up. Except for your clothes and any kitchenware you leave behind. Anything I do, I do it sneakily and behind your back, but not in the living room."

"Then we need to ask about the dusting. John, please fetch Mrs Hudson. She may complain she is not our housekeeper, but..." he didn't finish the sentence.

Kyrie looked on as Sherlock hurried around the room, checking for dust on all the furniture. Pretty soon John came back with Mrs Hudson in tow, dressed in her nightdress and dressing gown. Sherlock asked her the same question.

"Precise details... In the last week, what's been cleaned?" Sherlock demanded.

"Well, Tuesday I did your lino..." the landlady, looking slightly frazzled, started to recount.

"No, in here. This room," Sherlock interrupted her quickly while still checking all the furniture. "This is where we'll find it – any break in the dust line. You can put back anything but dust."

Sherlock ran his finger along one of the small shelves in the corner near the kitchen and then twirled his fingers in the air. "Dust is eloquent," he claimed.

"Only you would think that," Kyrie mumbled.

Mrs Hudson looked over her shoulder at her and John. "What's he on about?" John just shook his head. "Whoever knows? He's Sherlock," Kyrie said. She arched an eyebrow when Sherlock started climbing on the furniture to have a closer look at the top shelves of the bookcase left of the fireplace.

"Cameras," Sherlock suddenly said. "We're being watched."

"What?" Mrs Hudson asked, sounding quite shocked and she actually cringed a bit. "Here? I'm in my nightie!"

Kyrie paled as well. If they were being watched, how long had that been going on? She gulped as she remembered one particular afternoon. She'd been in quite a goofy mood and had nicked one of Sherlock's white shirts, John's socks... and had done a little rendition of that famous Tom Cruise 'Risky Business' scene. She'd danced through the living room with the music of 'Old time rock and roll' blaring through John's laptop speakers.

"Don't worry, Kyrie," Sherlock said as he slid books from their place and back again, "I'm fairly certain no one saw you prancing about the living room in my shirt and John's socks, except maybe for Mycroft... who may have told me about it, maybe even shown me some footage. And don't worry, I won't tell anyone you secretly like to practice dancing. Your waltz is very good, your tango could use some improvement..." He stopped, suddenly realising what he'd said. "Sorry," he said with a smirk.

"Really, Sherlock? Now you suddenly decide to develop a sense of humour?"

Sherlock briefly turned around to face her, his lips curled up in a smile. The doorbell rang and Mrs Hudson scurried from the living room while Sherlock started checking the eye sockets of 'Billy', the human skull on the mantelpiece. Kyrie called it 'Yorrick' but Sherlock thought that was lame, so he called it 'Billy'.

Kyrie could hear several footsteps climbing up the stairs. If Sherlock heard it, or even cared, he didn't show it. He precariously stepped onto a few small tables that were near his armchair, both stacked with books. Balancing himself on the small tables, Sherlock checked the books on the top shelf of the bookshelves to the right of the fireplace. Kyrie couldn't see what caught his attention, just that something did.

She turned around when she heard people enter the living room. Greg and John just came in. Sherlock didn't turn around, he was still... looking at something.

"No, Inspector," he said.

"What?" Greg asked.

Sherlock carefully stepped down of the small tables. Now Kyrie could see he held a tiny camera in his fingers. "The answer's no."

"But you haven't heard the question!" Greg objected.

"You want to take me to the station. Just saving you the trouble of asking."

"Wait? What?" Kyrie started, "Greg?"

Greg turned away from her and it worried Kyrie he wasn't able to look her in the eye.

"The scream?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," Greg admitted with a sigh.

"Who was it? Donovan? I bet it was Donovan..."

Kyrie scowled hearing that name.

"Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping? Ah, Moriarty is smart," Sherlock said in a low voice. "He planted that doubt in her head, that little nagging sensation. You're going to have to be strong to resist. You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home..." Sherlock reached out his hand briefly pushed the tip of his index finger on Greg's forehead, right between his eyes. "There."

"Greg," Kyrie turned to look at him, her voice sending shivers even up her own spine. "Please, tell me that whatever is going on, is not what Sherlock says is going on?"

"Kyrie, it's complicated," Greg sighed. "Will you come, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned away from him and sat himself down at the laptop again. "One photograph, that's his next move. Moriarty's game... First the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch."

He picked up the camera again and looked at it briefly, before looking up again, his eyes locking with Greg's. "It's a game, Lestrade, and not one I'm willing to play."

"If you go through with this, you do realise you are nothing more than Moriarty's hand puppet?" Kyrie told Greg.

"Kyrie, I'm really fond of you, you know that, but please stay out of police business!" Greg snapped at her.

"He is my husband!" Kyrie seethed at him. "Like it or not, that makes it my business! You go tell Donovan to back off already! Tell her to get a life, preferably with a new career to go along with it!"

"Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock told Greg, a small smile playing on his lips.

Greg pulled his hand through his hair and sighed, exchanging a brief look with John. He then left them alone without saying anything else.

Kyrie was shaking with anger. When she turned around, she found Sherlock calmly looking at the laptop screen. He had linked the camera into the computer and had pulled up the live footage. John walked over to the window and peered outside. Soon she could hear the sounds of a car starting and driving off.

Sherlock briefly looked at John. "They'll be deciding."

"Deciding?" John asked in surprise.

"Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me."

"You think?"

"No, they can't!" Kyrie cried out.

"Of course they can. It's standard procedure."

"Should have gone with him," John suddenly said, surprising Kyrie with his words. "People'll think..."

"I don't care what people think," Sherlock interrupted him.

"You'd care... if they thought you were stupid, or wrong," John disagreed.

"No, that would just make _them_ stupid or wrong."

Kyrie knew he meant it. He really didn't care about what other people thought of him. Because he didn't care about 'other people'...

"Why would you want Sherlock to go with them?" Kyrie asked. "It's a load of horse shit!"

"Haven't you heard Sherlock, Kyrie?" John said angrily. "One photo, that is Moriarty's next move. Guess who will be coming back here soon to arrest him? Guess what photo will then be taken? I don't want the world believing that he's..."

"That I am what?" Sherlock asked him coldly, daring John to say the word.

"A fraud."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance and leaned back in his chair.

"You're worried they're right," he said softly.

"Of course not!" Kyrie said indignantly while John asked 'What?' at the same time."

"You're worried they're right about me, both of you are."

"No!" Kyrie cried out and she shook her head vehemently.

"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well."

"No, I'm not," John said and he turned away from Sherlock to look out of the window again.

Sherlock leaned forward and stared at them intently. "Moriarty is playing with your minds too."

Suddenly he furiously slammed his hand on the table, the unexpected outburst made Kyrie jump a bit. "Can't you see what's going on?" Sherlock cried out, a bit of a frenzied look flashed through his eyes.

And there it was. In truth, Sherlock did not care about what other people thought of him, it was of little interest to him. But, he certainly did care what either John or she thought of him. He was just lashing out at them because, she thought, in a way he was scared.

"Sherlock, if you really think that me and John would think such a thing of you, even for a moment..." Kyrie turned around to coldly stare at him. "Then you don't know us and never have. We _know_ you are real."

Her words seemed to calm him down, just a little bit.

"A hundred percent?" he asked.

John slowly turned around to face him again. "Of course we are sure, Sherlock. Nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time."

Sherlock didn't say anything. Though he didn't quite smile, the corners of his lips did twitch with a ghost of one. John looked away again, but Kyrie stared at him for a while longer. She tried to silently tell him, with a single glance, to never again question her belief in him. His slight nod told Kyrie he understood.

With slow and deliberate movements, Sherlock left his seat at the laptop and went to sit in his armchair, a pensive look etched on his face. Kyrie went to sit at his feet. She knew he disliked emotions and felt uncomfortable with human affection and intimacy... well... most of the time, but somehow she felt she should make the most out of this situation.

Time seemed to slip through her fingers... She couldn't grasp it or slow it down. _Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall_... She closed her eyes and leaned her head against his knee. When he let her and didn't pull away, Kyrie knew something was up and she could feel tears start to sting her eyes.

John suddenly switched off his phone. He'd been talking with someone but Kyrie didn't recall who. At the moment she didn't care.

"So, still got some friends on the Force. It's Lestrade. Says they're all coming over here right now, queuing up to slap on the handcuffs. Every single officer you ever made feel like a tit, which is a lot of people."

Kyrie was too tired to even glower at John, she just pressed her face even tighter against Sherlock's leg. Sherlock said nothing, he just stared off in space, twiddling with a lock of her golden hair between his fingers.


	30. The Great Escape

**A/N Oops! Forgot this bit when I updated! Guest, thank you so much for your nice compliment! Really means a lot to me! Honestly, what author doesn't like to receive reviews? It's a bit like a drug and just makes you want to push harder to deliver something great. So, I would like to thank all my readers for sticking with this story. Thank you all, for the reviews, the follows and the faves. Can you believe this story is nearing 6.000 views all ready? It humbles me. And, to quote the amazing River Song, 'No spoilers, sweetie!' All I can say... it will be emotional. Have fun with this chapter. Reviews, as always, will be greatly appreciated!**

Mrs Hudson suddenly knocked on the door of the living room with her customary 'yoo-hoo' before she walked in, still dressed in her nightclothes. She looked from John to Sherlock and from Sherlock to Kyrie.

"Oh, sorry, am I interrupting?" she asked tentatively.

Sherlock didn't deem her question worthy enough of an answer, so he just looked away.

"Some chap delivered a parcel. I forgot," she said sounding very self-conscious. "Marked perishable, I had to sign for it," she told John and she handed him the Jiffy bag. When Kyrie looked up, she saw there was a wax seal over the flap.

"Funny name," Mrs Hudson said, "German, like the fairy tales."

Sherlock nearly knocked over Kyrie when he rose to his feet and walked towards John, his gaze almost burning a hole in the Jiffy bag as John opened it and pulled out its contents.

Kyrie looked up in fear when she heard the sirens of several different vehicles draw near. John held up a large gingerbread man... He showed it to Sherlock. "Burnt to a crisp," he said softly.

"What does it mean?" John asked him.

Kyrie looked outside the window and gasped seeing the amount of vehicles screeching to a halt outside of their flat. The sirens stopped, doors were slammed open and shut as people clamoured outside. Her eyes narrowed when she detected Donovan and Anderson among them.

The doorbell rang and almost immediately someone started banging on the door with the door knocker.

"Police!" someone yelled in an authoritative tone.

"I'll go!" Mrs Hudson said and she immediately rushed away. Kyrie could hear her hurry down the stairs. The moment the door opened, voices started to fill the small hallway downstairs.

"Sherlock!"

Kyrie looked up hearing that voice. _Her_! Slowly Kyrie got to her feet.

"Evening, Mrs Hudson." Kyrie could hear Greg... Lestrade say. The traitor!

"We need to talk to you!"

John exchanged a brief look with Kyrie before he put the gingerbread man back in the envelope and put it on the table before he left the living room.

"Don't barge in like that!" Mrs Hudson cried out and immediately after that, Kyrie heard the sound of feet bounding up the stairs.

Sherlock calmly turned around, picked up his scarf and looped it around his neck.

"Have you got a warrant? Have you?" John asked someone and Kyrie could hear the anger he held back in his voice.

"Leave it, John," Lestrade answered, his voice carrying a warning.

"Really! Manners!" Mrs Hudson huffed.

By now, Sherlock was busy putting on his coat. Kyrie swallowed back a lump. He wouldn't resist, he would just go with them.

And suddenly, Lestrade was standing in front of him, along with two armed officers. One of them wasted no time and slapped a pair of handcuffs on Sherlock's left wrist.

"Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade said in a grave tone. "I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."

"I will never forgive you for this, Lestrade," she spat at him. John pushed her back, trying to persuade Lestrade to handle things differently. He gestured at Sherlock, looking at Lestrade with an almost pleading look in his eyes, as the officer roughly pulled Sherlock's left hand behind his back in order to cuff his other wrist.

"He's not resisting," John said to Lestrade.

"It's all right, John" Sherlock said and it almost sounded like he was trying to soothe him.

"He's not resisting!" John said with more urgency. "No, it's not all right. This is ridiculous!"

"Get him downstairs, now," Lestrade told the officer who just handcuffed Sherlock.

"Don't you dare!" Kyrie cried out. Her eyes briefly met Sherlock's, right before the officer roughly spun him around and marched him out of the door. Mrs Hudson looked like she was ready to break down in tears.

"Greg, you know you don't have to do..."

Lestrade spun around to get up close and personal with John. "Don't try to interfere, or I shall arrest you too."

" _Lestrade_..." Kyrie called out to him, putting emphasis on the fact she called him by his last name. When he turned to face her, his eyes widened a bit at the intense glare she cast at him. "You didn't have to do it like this, Lestrade," she said, her eyes blazing and her voice cold as ice. "There will come a day that you will sorely regret this!"

He turned around without saying a word and left the room.

Kyrie turned to Donovan, who was standing near the door. She looked awfully smug and completely satisfied with herself.

"It was you," Kyrie stated. "Moriarty's unwitting little sock-poppet..."

"Oh, I said it... to him," Donovan pointed her chin in John's direction. "First time we met. Solving crimes won't be enough..."

"Donavan? Solve this!" Kyrie lunged forward, grabbed the other woman by the lapels of her jacket and hurled her through the living room door with such force that she nearly took a tumble down the stairs. Unfortunately, she managed to grab the wooden railing of the stairs leading up to John's room, before she could topple down.

"Arrest that bitch!" Donovan shrieked in a very unprofessional manner.

In no time, Kyrie found her arms roughly pulled behind her right before she got escorted down the stairs in a way that could hardly be described as gentle.

"You done?" she heard John's voice drifting down from the living room.

On her way out, she past some snooty looking older guy wearing a grey suit, striped shirt and blue tie. He was wearing glasses too. Kyrie found herself wishing she had the ability to shatter those glasses with her voice, just so she could see the tiny fragments of glass shred his eyes.

With those kind of violent thoughts running through her mind, Kyrie got slammed against the waiting police car, right next to Sherlock. He turned his head to face her and looked surprised to see her there.

"Aren't you taking this whole 'for better, for worse' thing a bit too seriously?" Sherlock asked her with an amused expression on his face.

"Hey, I already did the 'in sickness and in health' thing. It was about time for the next one," she said smiling up at him.

Behind them, a couple of armed officers unlocked the cuff on Sherlock's right hand and transferred it to her right wrist, chaining them together.

"How do you like this for a ball and chain then?" Kyrie quipped.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Kyrie looked up and noticed Commander Snooty, or whatever his name and function was, walking out onto the street. He was holding a blood soaked handkerchief to his nose and had his head tilted back a bit.

"Don't hold your head backwards, you moron," Kyrie muttered softly about the same time that John got slammed against the car to the left of her.

"Joining us?" Sherlock asked amused. Well, someone was at least having a good time.

"Yeah. Apparently it's against the law to chin the Chief Superintendant."

"So Commander Snooty is in fact Chief Superintendant Snooty. Good to know," Kyrie said.

Behind them, the same couple of armed officers messed with a second set of cuffs, cuffing her left wrist to John's right, so they were now all three cuffed together.

"What did _she_ do?" Sherlock asked him.

"You didn't ask?"

Kyrie rolled her eyes as the boys talked to each other over her head.

"Must have slipped my mind."

"She nearly threw Donovan down the stairs," John said with a grin.

Sherlock chuckled lightly and seemed quite satisfied with the answer.

"Hmm. Bit awkward, this," he then mused.

"Just a bit. There's no one to bail us," John agreed.

"Actually, I was thinking more about our imminent and daring escape."

"Our what now?" Kyrie asked him in surprise. Sherlock didn't answer he stared at something lying on the dashboard of the car they were leaning against, but Kyrie couldn't quite see what he was looking at.

Suddenly a very annoying high-pitched sound came from the police radio, right before the heard the voice of the dispatcher. _"All units to 2-7."_

"Sherlock?" John tried to get his attention.

" _All units to 2..."_

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock suddenly reached through the open window of the care and did... something... Whatever he did, it caused a high-pitched squeal of feedback to rip through the earpiece of the officer standing behind them. Kyrie cringed as she saw the officer double over in pain, tearing the earpiece away. The sound was loud enough to hurt even her own ears.

And suddenly Sherlock was holding a gun in his left hand. He immediately pointed the gun towards the police officers nearest to them, yanking Kyrie's arm with him in the process. She gasped in surprise.

"Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?" Sherlock ordered while keeping the gun trained on them.

Kyrie saw Lestrade and Donovan standing nearby. Lestrade had an 'Oh crap!' look on his face. That look, coupled with the look of shock on Donovan's face, was oddly satisfying to see. The confused and shocked look on Chief Superintendant Snooty was just as priceless.

The police officers were a bit slow to respond. Not very surprising as they seemed to be slow with everything else as well. Sherlock raised the gun skywards and fired a couple of warning shots.

"NOW would be good!" he bellowed, lowering the gun to point it back at the police.

"Do as he says!" Lestrade yelled, gesturing everybody to move downwards and finally the officers started to kneel.

Sherlock backed away, dragging Kyrie and John back with him.

John raised his left hand up in defence. "Just, just so you're aware, the gun is his idea. We're just... you know..."

Sherlock quickly transferred the gun to his right hand and promptly aimed it at Kyrie's head.

"My hostages!" Sherlock shouted.

"Oh, hostages!" Kyrie said. "Good thinking!"

"Yes, hostages works. That works. They think you are a fraud and a psychopath anyway, crazy enough perhaps to shoot your own wife," John muttered in agreement.

The three of them backed away from the still kneeling police, though one look at them told Kyrie they were all ready to spring back to action at a moments notice.

Sherlock suddenly stared at something at the wall next to them. When Kyrie looked, she only saw a large, elaborate graffiti painting of the letters IOU embraced by a set of ink black angel's wings.

"Sherlock? What now?" she asked him softly. Sherlock shook his head and started moving backwards again until they slowly and carefully backed around the corner.

"Doing what Moriarty wants," he admitted. "I'm becoming a fugitive. Now run!"

Sherlock quickly turned around and started to sprint away down the road, dragging Kyrie and John along with him. Sherlock swiftly looped the chain of the cuffs around his wrist. "Take my hand!" he ordered Kyrie. "John, take hers!"

Kyrie immediately grabbed his hand and swiftly looped the chain of the other cuff around her left wrist before John took hold of her hand. While struggling with the chains and their hands, their feet didn't miss a beat as they sprinted onwards.

"I thought you didn't do hands, Sherlock?" Kyrie tried to make a joke.

"I _don't_!" he said pointedly.

"You know, people will definitely talk now!" John said.

Kyrie snorted. "As if they didn't already!"

Suddenly a police car with wailing sirens drove across junction ahead of them. Sherlock immediately swerved to the left and dropped the gun during the sudden movement.

"The gun!" John called out as it clattered against the ground.

"Leave it!" Sherlock yelled back as he shoved Kyrie against John so they both stumbled down a side alley as more police cars raced straight across the junction. He then quickly took the lead again, right towards the high railings right in front of them, blocking their way. Kyrie spotted an opportunity in the form of a dustbin standing right in front of them.

"Dustbin?" Kyrie asked.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed right before he leaped up the dustbin, immediately pulling her up with him while vaulting straight over the top of the railings. Kyrie, taking advantage of Sherlock's momentum, barely managed to tumble over the railings herself and immediately found herself half suspended in the air, because John, bless his heart, completely missed the dustbin. By Kyrie's tumble over the railings his right hand got dragged up while his face almost smashed against the railings.

"Sherlock, Kyrie, wait!" John reached through the rails with his free hand and managed to reach passed Kyrie to grab Sherlock's coat. He dragged him closer and glowered at his face. "We're going to need to coordinate!" he said very sternly and deliberately.

"Yeah, I kind of agree there, Sherlock," Kyrie said. "No jokes about 'hanging around' please."

"Kyrie, quit hanging around and give John a hand!" Sherlock immediately riposted. She rolled her eyes, but Sherlock didn't see because he was too busy scanning their surroundings. He then suddenly grabbed her by her waist and lifted her from the ground, creating some slack on the chain.

"John, try to leap on the dustbin, Kyrie you try and pull him up when he does."

It took a few tries, but finally John toppled over the rails as well, and landed on the ground beneath him in a slightly embarrassing way. They quickly set off in a run down the alley again. When they came upon another T-junction, Sherlock swiftly veered to the right, but immediately thought the better of it and ducked back again. Kyrie peered around the corner and saw a police car speeding by with blaring sirens. The three of them leaned against the wall behind them in a short reprieve to catch their breaths.

"Everybody wants to believe it," Sherlock said panting, "That's what makes it so clever. A lie that's preferable to the truth."

Kyrie wasn't sure if he'd noticed, but Sherlock still had her hand firmly grasped in his, whereas John had just started holding her by the sleeve of her coat. Sherlock's voice turned a bit bitter.

"All my brilliant deductions were just a sham. No one feels inadequate. Sherlock Holmes is just an ordinary man."

"Sherlock," Kyrie started, her voice carrying a stern tone. "There is _nothing_ ordinary about you, even IF your brilliant deductions were just a sham."

He looked at her briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"What about Mycroft?" John asked. "He could help us."

Sherlock suddenly dragged Kyrie across to the other side of the alley.

"A little warning next time?" she hissed at him.

Sherlock peered down the left arm of the junction. "Hush!" he said to Kyrie. "A big family reconciliation? Now's not really the moment."

"Don't be daft, Sherlock!" Kyrie said. "We're not talking about prodigal son returning stuff, no party and cake, just call him for help. Or are you too proud to admit you could use a little help from your big brother?"

"Do shut up," he said tersely, "I'm not calling my brother!"

He then spun around, dragging them behind him, looking back the way they came.

"Sher... Sherlock," John whispered and moved around Kyrie to elbow him with his cuffed arm, turning him in the direction. Kyrie noticed someone peering around the corner at the end of the alley.

"We're being followed. I knew we couldn't outrun the police," John whispered.

"That's not the police. It's one of our new neighbours from Baker Street. Let's see if he can give us some answers."

Sherlock broke away from the wall, going in the opposite direction of were they noticed assassin number something watching them. They ran to the next corned and flattened themselves against the wall as they reached it.

Sherlock peered around the corner, Kyrie peered around him and the corner. There was no sign of any police in the street. The only traffic she could see, came lumbering towards them in the form of a double decker bus... number 74 to Baker Street Station. Sherlock pressed his back against the wall again.

"Where are we going?" John asked him.

"We're going to jump in front of that bus," Sherlock explained.

"Excuse me?" Kyrie cried out, but got no more time to think as Sherlock was already dragging her and John out into the street. There was only one thing to do if they wanted to make this mad idea succeed... Run as fast as her legs could carry her!

Halfway across the road, Sherlock skidded to a halt directly in front of the approaching bus. Kyrie slammed against him while John's impetus carried him past both of them before he was able to stop and turn.

Kyrie stared at the approaching double decker, her eyes wide open in fear.

From the corner of her eyes she noticed the assassin charging into the road, right before he ploughed straight into them and shoved them out of the way. All four of them tumbled to the ground as the bus drove by, its horn blaring angrily at them.

Before the assassin could recover, Sherlock quickly rolled to his side, panting slightly, and picked the assassin's gun from his pocket. He cocked the gun and pointed it at the man. "Tell me what you want from me," Sherlock demanded, lying half on top of Kyrie. She grunted a bit in discomfort.

The man just stared at him, his eyes wide as he noticed he was staring down the barrel of his own gun. Sherlock moved the muzzle of the gun closer to the man's face. "Tell me!" he bit out.

"He left it at your flat," the assassin finally answered unwillingly in a thick accent.

"Who?"

"Moriarty," the assassin grunted.

"What?" Sherlock asked as they all started to scramble from the ground. Sherlock made sure to keep the gun trained on the assassin.

"The computer key code."

"Of course," Sherlock said, glaring at the assassin. "He's selling it... The programme he used to break into the Tower..." He squinted his eyes in realisation. "He planted it when he came around."

Suddenly three gunshots rang out in the night. The assassin first reeled back, before he dropped to the ground. Sherlock immediately looked up in the direction the bullets came from. He then whirled around and spurted away with John and Kyrie. They quickly ducked into an open doorway when police sirens suddenly sounded perilously close again. They saw another police car drive by past the end of the road.

They leaned against the door, all three of them panting heavily. "It's a game-changer," Sherlock explained in between breaths. "It's a key. It can break into any system and it's sitting in our flat right now. That's why he left that message telling everyone where to come. 'Get Sherlock'. Oh, I should have seen it sooner!" Sherlock exclaimed, sounding disgusted at himself. "Remember the smiley face in the O of my name? Where else have you seen a smiley lately?"

"So, when has he been in the flat?" Kyrie asked.

"Several times, I've noticed each time of course. I just didn't connect the smiley in Moriarty's message to the smiley on our wall till now. He was broadcasting his instructions! We need to get back into the flat and search."

"But, why plant it on you?" John asked. "CID'll be camped out."

"It's another subtle way of smearing my name. Now I'm best pals with all those criminals," Sherlock said, his voice tinged with bitterness.

"Yeah, well, have you seen this?" John asked and he bend over to retrieve the top copy of a stack of newspapers nearby. It was a copy of 'The Sun', the one promising an upcoming exposé by Kitty Riley.

"That piece of trash?" Kyrie snorted.

"Yeah. A kiss and tell," John showed the newspaper to Sherlock. "Source is some bloke called Rich Brook."

Kyrie looked at Sherlock. She knew the name meant something to him, because his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open a bit.

"Who is he?" John asked.

"Who indeed," Sherlock muttered quietly. "I think I should introduce you to the writer, Kitty Riley," he then said.

"Kitty Riley? You know her? Should I be jealous?" Kyrie asked in jest.

"Certainly not of her!" Sherlock scoffed. Kyrie lightly ribbed him with her elbow. "Better answer would be 'never'. Where did you meet her?"

"Men's room in the court house. She was pretending to be a 'fan'... then claimed she was a smart reporter and totally trustworthy." He rolled his eyes making it very clear what he thought of her.

"Men's room? Some people will stoop to any level to get a story."

"Indeed."

Sherlock deduced whereabouts she lived, taking into consideration her income, what she could afford, what she would be willing to pay, the state of her clothes, the stains on her shoes... After that it was pretty easy to find the right Riley, K. from an online phone book.


	31. Almost Goodbye

**A/N Can you guys believe this story has gotten well over 6.000 views already? It's great to see so many people take the time to read this story. I hope you enjoy reading this because for me, it's an absolute thrill to write! As always, I would appreciate you taking the time to leave a review or just drop by to say hi :-) It's almost here guys... the fall...**

SSS

"You know this is breaking and entering, right?" Kyrie told Sherlock.

"I'm not breaking the door," Sherlock countered. "And I'm not breaking the lock either, so technically... this would be 'tampering and entering'."

"Same difference," Kyrie muttered.

"Shush," Sherlock told her, using the torch app on his phone to look around. Kyrie gasped as she saw the wall behind her.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing. Just...it looks like someone barfed a collection of... paintings against the wall.

Sherlock slowly turned his head to look at her and arched a brow. "Barfed?" he asked pointedly.

"Yes. Like..." Kyrie made a vomiting noise, accentuated by a gesture of her hands and then she flourished her hands at the wall. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Let's sit down and wait for her," he said in a long-suffering tone, ignoring the not so subtle sniggering John to his side.

"How do we sit down on _that_?" Kyrie asked, pointing at the love-seat behind them.

"Simple," he said. "Like this." Having said that, he simply sat down, motioning for John to take the seat next to him. That left Kyrie standing in front of them. Sherlock then patted his leg with his free hand.

"You are kidding me, right?" she asked him incredulously. He sent her a positively devious smirk.

"Come on, Kyrie. Don't be bashful. We already slept together anyway."

"Wait, what? You two?" John's eyes went so large they threatened to pop from his head.

Sherlock sighed in dismay. "We slept together, John! In the same bed? In Dartmoor?" he clarified.

"Oh," John answered, sounding a bit disappointed. That made Kyrie smile and she flopped down on Sherlock's knees.

"This is hardly comfortable," she complained after a while as Sherlock turned off the torch app. "Do you have any idea how bony and scrawny your legs are?"

"Would you rather switch position?" he asked her dryly.

"No, thank you," she muttered darkly. "Then I'd have to contend with your bony arse."

John tried to stifle in laugh, but in vain. Sherlock told them both to be quiet. They were expecting the current resident of this place to arrive soon after all.

It was a bit awkward, sitting in the dark like this... Kyrie hugged herself with her right arm, so Sherlock's left arm rested between them. Her left arm however, was dangling somewhere mid-air, still chained to John's right hand. John simply refused to put his hand anywhere near Sherlock to give Kyrie a bit more leeway.

She held her breath when she heard footsteps drawing near. They stopped right in front of the door to the apartment, but no one came in, yet. To be honest, Kyrie would be hesitant as well if she would have noticed her front door to be unlocked.

The door made a creaking noise and a small ray off light fell into the room, right before the lights suddenly came on. Kyrie blinked to adjust her eyes to the sudden brightness. She looked up, curious to see what this Kitty Riley looked like.

She was quite attractive, with her ginger hair and pale blue eyes, her skin looked a bit dull though and the scowl on her lips was very unbecoming. Then a rather sharp scent hit her nose, it actually made her recoil a bit. All in all, Kyrie wasn't terribly impressed with the woman.

"Too late to go on the record?" Sherlock asked dryly. Then he raised up his cuffed hand, dragging Kyrie's hand up along with it. "Got a hairpin I can use?"

Kitty didn't utter a word. She glared at them, but slowly pulled a hairpin from her bun. She then held out her hand, but didn't step closer. Sighing with annoyance, Kyrie pushed herself upright so Sherlock and John could get up too. Sherlock took the offered pin and immediately stuck it in the lock of his handcuff, wiggling it around, using it as a lock pick.

Kitty sat down in an armchair, looking up at them expectantly.

"Congratulations," Sherlock remarked. "The truth about Sherlock Holmes." He freed his hand and gave the hairpin to John before he started to pace back and forth in front of Kitty. "The scoop that everybody wanted and you got it. _Bravo_!"

"I gave you your opportunity. I wanted to be on your side, remember? You turned me down, so..."

"Oh, you mean when you were undercover in the men's room?" Kyrie said in a scathing voice.

"A girl does what a girl must," Kitty said with a shrug of her shoulders.

"And then, lo and behold, someone turns up and spills all the beans. How utterly convenient. Who is Brook?"

Kitty shook her head, refusing to tell them anything.

"Oh, come on, Kitty. No one trusts the voice at the end of a telephone."

John finally managed to free both him and Kyrie from the cuffs. Kyrie heaved a sigh in relief. It was good to be in control of her own limbs again!

"There are all those furtive little meetings in cafés, those sessions in the hotel room where he gabbled into your dictaphone... How do you know that you can trust him? A man turns up with the Holy Grail in his pockets." Sherlock looked at Kitty, his eyes widened a bit and his voice turned steely. "What were his credentials?" he demanded.

Kyrie looked up at the unexpected sound of someone entering the building through the main front door. Kitty looked up as well and for some reason suddenly seemed to be worried.

Someone pushed open the door and wandered into the living room, oblivious as to what was going on. "Darling, they didn't have any ground coffee so I just got normal…"

There was something awfully familiar about this... unkempt man with his unshaven face, not a good look on him by the way... his messy dark hair and dreadful choice of outfit. He put down a shopping bag and suddenly seemed to noticed them. His eyes snapped towards Sherlock and he recoiled in fear at the sight of him.

Kyrie looked at Sherlock and was surprised to see a look of equal shock blowing his eyes wide open. The man dropped the shopping bag to the floor and cowered backwards, until his back bumped into the wall behind him. He raised his hands in defence.

"You said that they wouldn't find me here," the man said, sounding quite hysterical. "You said that I'd be safe here."

"You _are_ safe, Richard," Kitty said to him in a soothing voice. He wouldn't harm you in front of witnesses."

"So, _that's_ your source?" John exclaimed, looking as shocked as Sherlock. She took a better look at the scruffy looking man again... " _Moriarty_ is Richard Brook?" John asked incredulously while pointing at the man. John had an absolutely murderous look on his face.

Kyrie's eyes widened and she imagined she looked as shocked as Sherlock and John were. Moriarty? Here? Calling himself Richard Brook? What the hell was going on?"

"Of course he's Richard Brook. There is no Moriarty," Kitty explained. "There never has been." She smiled at John with a mixture of pride and triumph. It was like she was feeling superior to him, because she knew the 'truth' about Sherlock and he was still blind to it.

"What are you talking about?" John said as if on cue.

"Look him up. Richard Brook, an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty." Kitty was smiling as she confronted John with her truth. The look of horror on Sherlock's face explained more than words ever could, how shocked he was to hear accusations of that nature.

"Good God," Kyrie exclaimed in astonishment. "You actually, truly believe that, don't you? I thought you were supposed to be smart? Isn't that what you told Sherlock? That you were smart and... what was it again... totally trustworthy? Honey..." Kyrie gestured at Moriarty. "This ain't smart."

Kitty's eyes were shooting daggers at Kyrie while John was still glaring at Jim and actually took a menacing step forward.

"Doctor Watson, I know you're a good man. Don't, don't h... Don't hurt me."

"No, you are Moriarty!" John yelled. "He's Moriarty! We've met, remember? You were gonna blow me up!"

Kyrie felt torn... there was John, completely unravelling in front of her. And poor Sherlock just stood there, trying to maintain a stony façade, but failing terribly at it. And this Moriarty... he was good! He played his role to perfection.

He held his hands raised in front of him and he cowered in front of them. If she didn't have such an unshakable belief in Sherlock, or if she hadn't seen that one calculated look flash through his eyes... she might have started to doubt.

Moriarty put his hands in front of his face, as if he felt deeply ashamed of himself. When he lowered his hands again, he looked as if he was on the verge of crying.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. He paid me," Moriarty said as he gestured his hands at Sherlock in despair. Kyrie stole a quick glance at Sherlock and the look of... defeat... she saw on his face, in his eyes... it cut through her like a sword.

"I needed work. I'm an actor. I was out of work. I'm sorry, okay?" Moriarty explained in a quick flurry of words, but John no longer wanted to listen to him. He turned to face Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you'd better.. explain... because I am not getting this." John was breathing heavily and had trouble to even form the right words.

"Oh, I'll, I'll be doing the explaining... in print!" Kitty said in triumph while shoving a folder in John's hands. It's all here... conclusive proof."

Kyrie went to stand next to John and looked at an early printed draft of her upcoming article then turned the page to see the proof copy, showing them exactly how the article would appear in the newspaper, though there were a few blank spaces that would allow for some photographs. The headline read: 'Sherlock's a fake!' with the strapline 'He invented all the crimes.'

Kitty turned to look at Sherlock. The way she carried herself, that haughty set of her shoulders, proud look on her face... Oh, she felt so superior at the moment. "You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis."

"Invented him?"

"Mm-hmm. Invented all the crimes, actually. And, to cap it all, you made up a master villain." Kitty couldn't look more holier-than-thou if she tried.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" John spat out in disbelief. Sherlock still just stood there, not saying anything. He just brushed the side of his nose with his fingers. Kyrie noticed they were trembling slightly.

Kitty turned around and pointed towards Moriarty. "He's right here. Just ask him. Tell him, Richard!" she told him as if she was on the verge of breaking out in hysterical laughter.

"Look, for God's sake... this man was on trial!" John by now was nearly screaming.

"Yes, and you paid him," Kitty said accusingly and whirled around to face Sherlock. "Paid him to take the rap. Promised you'd _rig_ the jury. Not exactly a West End role, but I'll bet the money was good."

She walked over to Moriarty who was still keeping his out out in front of him, and placed her hand on his chest in a telling intimate way. "But not so good he didn't want to sell his story."

"You mad cow..." Kyrie said to her. "You complete and utter... Mad. Cow! Are you so desperate for a breaking news story, that you are willing to print anything? What did Moriarty do... spin some sob story, bat his lashes at you and then you what... humped his bones?"

"You know nothing!" Kitty said, her voice full of loathing.

"I am sorry. I _am_. I am sorry." Moriarty put his hands together as if in prayer, pleading them to believe him.

"So, so... _this_ is the story that you're gonna publish. The big conclusion of it all... Moriarty's an actor?!"

"Oh, he's an actor all right," Kyrie scoffed. "Just look at him... He really brings 'Richard Brook' to life. But," she turned at Kitty. "Make no mistake, 'Richard Brook' is the role, not 'Moriarty'. I will admit though... this is some great acting."

"I _am_ an actor. He knows I am an actor. I have proof," Moriarty started flailing with his hands. "I have proof. Show them, Kitty! Show them something!"

"Yeah, show us something," John said sarcastically as Kitty strode across the room. Kyrie arched a brow at her as Kitty reached into a bag for something she could show them as 'proof'. She quickly checked on Sherlock again and noticed something odd... the look in his eyes as he stared at Moriarty.

She snapped her eyes to Moriarty, who quickly pulled up the façade of his fake persona again, but just a bit too slow... Kyrie caught a glimmer of the real person hiding behind 'Richard Brook'. She pressed her hand against her stomach, feeling a sudden wave of nausea coming up. She'd only once seen such a depraved look in a man's eyes... they reminded her of Gerulf Schricken.

Kitty walked back and handed John another folder.

"I'm on TV. I'm on kids' TV. I'm the Storyteller," Moriarty told them in an apologetic manner.

Kyrie only got a brief glance at the contents of the folder... contact details that looked to be taken from an agency website and a newspaper article of Richard in glasses wearing medical scrubs, stethoscope and all. The headline said 'Award Winning Actor Joins Cast of Top Medical Drama'.

"Oh, that must be good," she said, looking at the startled look on John's face. "You definitely deserve an award for this."

"No, I'm the Storyteller. It's on DVD," Moriarty turned to Kyrie, casting her a pleading look. She merely arched a brow at him, silently telling him she was not buying into his crap.

John turned page after page, briefly allowing Kyrie to see more publicity stills of Rich together with his CV. Moriarty gestured at Kyrie and John. "Just tell them. It's all coming out now. It's all over," he said, almost in a frenzied daze. "Just tell them. Just tell them. Tell them!"

Finally, Sherlock seemed to regain his senses. The look of defeat disappeared from his eyes, the will to fight emerging full force. He actually bared his teeth at Moriarty as he approached him.

"It's all over now... NO!" Moriarty suddenly yelled and cowered in fear as Sherlock got near him. He stumbled up the steps of the stairs behind him, leading to the bedroom on the upper level of the apartment. Moriarty's eyes were wide with fear.

"Don't you touch me!" he screeched. "Don't you lay a finger on me!"

"Stop it. Stop it, NOW" Sherlock yelled at him, his eyes blazing with cold fury. Moriarty whipped around and bolted up the stairs. Both Sherlock and John dashed after him while Kitty yelled at them to leave him alone and followed after them.

Kyrie didn't see what happened next, just that Moriarty managed to slam the door in Sherlock's face. Sherlock briefly struggled with the door and just a moment later, Kyrie heard a vague crashing sound coming from outside and John swearing. Sherlock appeared from the room again, ready to dash down the stairs, but Kitty blocked his path and very slowly walked backwards down the steps.

"You know what, Sherlock Holmes? I look at you now and I can read you," Kitty told him as Sherlock reached her. "And you... repel.. me," Kitty said in his face, biting out each word.

Sherlock said nothing. He just turned around and headed out of the door. John, who was still holding the folder of the articles about Rich, shoved Kitty to the side and followed his friend out.

"Let me tell you something, Kitty Riley," Kyrie said, her voice taunting. "You go ahead, publish that article. In the end, the truth will out. Whatever damage you _think_ this will do to Sherlock's reputation, it WILL get restored. Just as _yours_ will be destroyed. And you deserve _everything_ that's coming to you, like the serpent that you are. And, you know what else? You.. _repel_... ME... Literally! Do you really not smell what a rancid perfume you are wearing? I mean, it's like 'skunk' bad!"

Kyrie followed the boys and didn't look back as Kitty slammed the door shut behind her.

John trotted after Sherlock who was already marching down the street. "Can he do that? Completely change his identity... make you the criminal?" John asked.

"He's got my whole life story. That's what you do when you sell a big lie."

John stopped to have another look at the papers in the folder and Sherlock started pacing back and forth rapidly in the middle of the road.

"You wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable," Sherlock continued.

"So, it's your word against his and people will believe it, will want to believe it because he hid the lie in the truth," Kyrie said slowly.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed. "That's why he's been sowing doubt into people's minds for the last twenty-four hours, so they will gobble it all up more easily."

Kyrie softly placed her hand on his arm, forcing him to stand still. "Not all people, Sherlock," she reminded him gently. "There's nothing anyone in this world can do or say to make me or John doubt you."

Sherlock looked down at her and seemed to calm just a little. "I know, thank you," he said simply as he briefly put his hand to her cheek. Kyrie blinked in surprise as this was not a gesture she would have expected from him.

"So, what now?" she asked him.

"Well, there's only one thing he needs to do now to complete his game and that's to..." Sherlock stopped talking abruptly. John looked up from the folder to look at his friend.

"Sherlock?"

"Something I need to do," Sherlock said deflecting the unasked question.

"What? Can I help?"

"No, on my own."

Sherlock briskly started to walk away, leaving Kyrie standing there confused. She exchanged a brief look with John and he nodded in understanding. He then sighed and looked down at the papers again briefly before heading down the road in the opposite direction, as Kyrie started to run to catch up with Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" she called after him, but he didn't respond and just continued his march.

Kyrie rolled her eyes in annoyance. "Sherlock! Bloody hell, can you at least stop and acknowledge the fact that I'm calling you?"

He then quickly turned around. "What?" He bit out. "I just told you and John there's something I need to do... On my own!"

"I thought we were a team!" she yelled. "Why do you always keep running off, doing things by yourself, on your own...?" Why won't you let me or John help?"

"We are not a team, Kyrie!" he spat. "Don't you get it? I just tolerate..." He abruptly stopped talking. For a long moment, he just stood there, not saying a single word. Then he looked up again to meet her eyes. Kyrie worried when she saw this strange look of guilt and remorse on his face.

"No," he said softly, "That's not true." He walked up to her and looked into her eyes. "I'm used to running off and doing things on my own. When John came along, I still ran off to do things on my own without thinking and... to be honest... it would often lead us, or actually John, into trouble."

"Then why not stop running off? You know you don't have to things by yourself any more, right?" she asked, her voice pleading.

"Because," he said, taking her face in his hands. "Because you came along too. I started to think before running off and make deliberate decisions, because sometimes... it's what I need to do to... to...keep you _from_ trouble."

Kyrie nodded, giving in, silently telling him he could go. She would not stop him again.

"Kyrie," he said softly. "You made a wrong... deduction... some time ago."

She looked up at him and furrowed her brows in confusion.

"In Dartmoor," he clarified. "You told me that... in case of a divorce, you knew where you would end up, emotionally, and where I would end up. I'm not... You know I abhor sentiment. The grit... the fly..." he grimaced a bit.

"But sometimes I do catch myself... feeling. Though a divorce would not leave me exactly as you, it would also not leave me where you think it would. Because... I would notice you were gone."

Kyrie nearly burst out in laughter, but she was too moved by his words. This was Sherlock after all.

"I would notice you were gone, too," she whispered. He smiled at her, though his eyes were sad. She didn't have time to think what would make him look so sad, as he suddenly pressed his lips against hers.

Several things quickly raced through her mind. One, Sherlock didn't kiss her to throw Gerulf off. Two, Sherlock wasn't trying to change the colour of her eyes. Three, Sherlock wasn't high on drugs. Four, he wasn't getting himself a quick 'Mind Palace' boost. Five... he was kissing her because he wanted to.

She let him guide her through the kiss, not sure what it was he wanted or searched for. It wasn't a passionate kiss, it wasn't a heated kiss... it was sweet as a plump strawberry, as the first scoop of ice on warm sunny day, as the first rain after a period of drought.

When he pulled back, his eyes were guarded. He placed a feathery light kiss on her forehead and whispered good-bye. Then he quickly turned around and marched away, without looking back.


	32. Fooled you

**A/N DreamonAlina Thank you so much for your kind reviews and your enthusiasm. I don't mind long chapters myself, but only when I'm reading on a pc. But, people read on phones and tablets too, so I try to keep that in mind when posting chapters. So, just for you... Today I'm posting an extra chapter. Although, I'm afraid you will hate me after this one. It's a bit evil, I confess. But, in my defence, the chapter would just be too long (I know you don't see it that way).**

 **Guest Haha, I'm sorry I'm messing with your head. I really don't mean to. Yes, I do. But really, I don't mean to mess with your head. Yeah I do. Sorry! Please don't hate me too much after this one! Thank you for sticking with this one!**

SSS

Sherlock was standing in a lab in Barts, Molly's domain. He was waiting. Now that the hour was drawing near, he could no longer pretend he had successfully succeeded in completely severing himself from any and all emotions. It was strange, this foreign sensation of... feeling. Some feelings he was somewhat familiar with, some feelings were completely new to him.

He knew how this would likely end. He and Mycroft had known for quite some time. They knew Moriarty would never just give up that keyCode. They would have to trick him into showing his hand. They had known, both him and Mycroft, there would only be one way for them to accomplish that.

Once he'd stand on the roof, there were thirteen possible outcomes to his meeting with Moriarty. He was hoping for an outcome that would allow him to return back to his life at Baker Street. A life he had come to actually enjoy where at first he had just lived life.

He closed his eyes. It had seemed so easy all those months ago... this carefully designed plot. Now it seemed anything but. The outcome was unsure and there was a high chance he would not be able to return for a very long time. Was that why he had kissed Kyrie, earlier? It had somehow felt fitting. Just in case.

But now, he had to make some preparations. And so he waited. For Molly Hooper. He didn't have to wait overly long. He could hear her footsteps as she emerged from a small room in the lab. She was done for the day and finishing up. Molly turned off the lights and walked across the darkened lab. She let out a tired sigh and was about to go through the door to the corridor.

"You're wrong, you know," he said. Her little gasp and jump of fright did not surprise him. He could hear her spin round so she could see him. "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." He slowly turned his head to face her. "But you were right. I'm not okay."

"Tell me what's wrong."

Sherlock turned his body and slowly walked towards her. "Molly, I think I'm going to die."

"What do you need?"

He continued his slow approach. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that _I_ think I am... would you still want to help me?"

He stopped right in front of her and she had to look up to be able to look him in the eyes.

"What do you need?" she asked again.

He took another step. He was invading her personal space and, though Sherlock had no idea to convey emotions, he hoped she could tell by the look on his face, he really needed her help. "You," he said plainly.

"Me?" she asked a bit breathlessly.

"Yes. I will tell you all you need to know, but, and this is imperative... If I _die_ , Kyrie and John can't know about this. Not until the time is right. It will hurt them. But... They. Can't. Know."

SSS

"Mycroft!" Kyrie yelled the moment she pushed her way in to Mycroft's beloved 'Diogenes Club'. The old coots hanging about in their armchairs were too shocked to respond. She wasn't sure what shocked them more... the unexpected break in their sacred silence, or the fact a woman was walking down their sanctum sanctorum.

"Mycroft Holmes!" she yelled again, walking across one of the common rooms. The large door in front of her was closed. She placed the palms of her hands against it and pushed it wide open. Luckily, she saw two very familiar faces looking up at her in shock, otherwise this could have ended in a rather embarrassing way. Mycroft and John were sitting across from each other in a pair of ugly green leather armchairs. A small table stood to the side of them, with a lamp standing on it with an even uglier dusty pink lampshade.

"What have you done, Mycroft?" she asked. She was seething at him. She briefly turned her head to the other man. "Oh, hey John. Got the same idea as me then?" Kyrie immediately turned her attention back on her brother-in-law. "Well?" she asked impatiently.

"John, Kyrie," Mycroft tried in a soothing voice.

"So, how does it work then, your relationship? Do you go out for a coffee now and then, eh? You and Jim?" John demanded.

Mycroft looked from John to Kyrie and then back to John again, his mouth opening like a goldfish.

"Your own brother, Mycroft. _My_ husband! Something _you_ helped to arrange! And you blabbed about his entire life to this... this... maniac!"

"Please, John... Kyrie... I never inten... I never dreamt –"

"So, this...see this.." John could hardly form the words as he waved the newspaper at Mycroft. "This is what you were trying to tell me, isn't it. 'Watch his back, 'cause I've made a mistake.'" John slapped the papers down on the little table and sat back. He cleared his throat and Kyrie could see from the dark look in his eyes, he was really making an effort to remain calm.

"How did this happen, Mycroft?" Kyrie demanded. "You knew what he's like. You informed me about him yourself. So... How. Did. This. Happen?"

Mycroft drew in a long steady breath. "People like him," he started and licked his lips. "We know about them. We watch them. But James Moriarty... the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen, and in his pocket the ultimate weapon. A keyCode. A few lines of computer code that could unlock any door."

"How did he even get that code?" Kyrie interrupted him. "I know he's some criminal mastermind, but you never told me anything about him being an amazing programmer. You and Sherlock, both brilliant, but I don't see the two of you coming up with something like that."

"We don't know," Mycroft said. "We only know he has it. How he obtained it, we don't know. It was one of the things we... _I_ was trying to find out."

"So, you abducted him to try and find the keyCode? Find its source, its creator? Find out if he created it himself?"

"Interrogated him for weeks," Mycroft admitted.

"Is that what you meant back in Dartmoor? _The stage is set?_ That's when you had Moriarty?"

"Yes."

"And?" John asked impatiently.

"He wouldn't play along. He just sat there... staring into the darkness."

"What, didn't torture work on him?" Kyrie said, sending Mycroft a knowing look.

Mycroft didn't divulge. "The only thing that made him open up..." He gestured to himself, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "I could get him to talk. Just a little. But..." he trailed off. Kyrie closed her eyes in dismay.

"... in return you had to offer him Sherlock's life story. So one big lie, Sherlock's a fraud, but people will swallow it because all the rest of it's true." John leaned forward his chair. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And you just handed him the perfect ammunition on a silver platter!" John smiled bitterly.

Kyrie could barely stand to even look at Mycroft. At least he knew what he'd done, 'cause he couldn't stand to look either her or John in the eye, so he lowered his in shame.

John drew in a sharp breath and got to his feet. He gave Kyrie a quick hug before he turned towards the door.

"John..." Mycroft called after him. When he heard John turn around again, Mycroft looked back up.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"Oh, please..." John scoffed. He shook his head in disgust and turned away again, chuckling humourlessly as he walked to the large double doors.

"Tell him, would you?" Mycroft asked him before John disappeared through the door.

"How could you, Mycroft?" Kyrie asked him. She enjoyed seeing him cringe as she used his full name, instead of the affectionate 'My' he claimed to hate. "You _sold_ your brother for information. Did you really not stop and wonder... WHY...Moriarty would want to know some trivial stuff about Sherlock's personal life?"

"I did what I thought was best. Seemed like a good deal at the time," he said reluctantly.

"My God!" Kyrie exclaimed. "What else did you tell Moriarty about Sherlock's personal life? Did you tell him about us, too? You knew that Gerulf had been his client!" Kyrie started pacing up and down. "Please tell me, you did not hand over information to Moriarty that could get him killed."

Mycroft looked away and said nothing. Kyrie gasped. "You did? I swear... Mycroft... if something happens to him... I will never forgive you. NEVER!" Kyrie turned on her heels in anger and left her brother-in-law alone with his thoughts.

Molly had turned on the lights back on for him. Sherlock was sitting on the floor, his back pressed up against the bench. Molly had left quite some time ago. She should be well on her way, carrying out his instructions.

He bounced a small rubber ball off the floor and cupboard in front of him and caught it again. He then repeated this same little action over and over... Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

Suddenly the door of the lab opened and Sherlock could hear the familiar footsteps of John walking in. "Got your message," John said.

Sherlock caught the ball and held on to it. "Kyrie not with you?" he asked John.

"Um... no... didn't you send her a message?"

"No. Thought she was with you. Would be unnecessary."

John sighed. "Well... she was for a bit and then she wasn't. What now?"

"The computer code is key to this," Sherlock explained. "If we find it, we can use it. Beat Moriarty at his own game." He was fiddling with the little black ball in his fingers.

"What do you mean 'use it'?" John asked, walking up to him.

"He used it to create a false identity, so we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook."

"And bring back Jim Moriarty again," John said in understanding.

That was the idea. Find the keyCode, bring back Moriarty, if they could manage to do that in time... maybe he wouldn't have to die after all. Because with that keyCode, not only would they be able to bring back Moriarty... they could use it eradicate his entire network. He raised himself from the floor. "Somewhere in 221B, somewhere... on the day of the verdict... he left it hidden."

"Yes, we established that earlier," John said. His eyes widened. "I bet there's where she is... Kyrie..." he laughed. "She's trying to find it."

"She won't," Sherlock said darkly. He turned around and put both of his hands on the work surface of the bench. John walked over to him, to stand beside him. John pursed his lip, then looked at Sherlock.

"What did he touch?" he asked.

"An apple and a tea cup. Nothing else," Sherlock said as he drummed his fingers against the surface of the bench.

"Did he write anything down?"

"I just told you he only touched an apple and a tea cup," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes a bit. "So, no."

John inhaled sharply. Sherlock could almost hear the gears of his mind turning and grinding. John drummed his fingers against the bench as well, before he suddenly pushed himself off to walk across the lab, blowing out his breath again.

Sherlock didn't say anything. The way John had drummed his fingers against the bench... it had sparked a memory in him. He looked at his right hand, the black rubber ball still trapped underneath it. He lifted his fingers, hesitated for a moment, then began to drum them again. This time however, he was beating out a specific rhythm. A rhythm he remembered, had seen before.

He stared intently at his fingers, imagined binary code attached to each little pause and tap. John sighed near him, but Sherlock raised his head in sudden realisation. Of course! Moriarty never needed to touch anything. All he needed to do... was _show_ him!

Sherlock quietly straightened himself, cast a brief look at John before he pulled back his hand, along with the little ball, and turned his back on his friend to quickly retrieve his phone from his pocket. He swiftly typed a message.

\- Come and play  
\- Bart's Hospital rooftop.  
\- SH

He paused for a moment, then added something to it.

\- PS. Got something of yours  
you might want back.

He sent the message and tucked his phone away into his jacket. Done. Now all he had to do was wait... He turned back towards the bench. One more text to send. He had to lure John away from this place.

The hours ticked by. Sherlock had perched himself on a stool and put his feet up on the bench. He was impatiently and rapidly rolling the rubber ball from side to side across the bench.

His fingers flitted swiftly over the top of the ball. He carefully kept a dispassionate look on his face, it was important to keep it that way in the next few moments. If he betrayed himself just slightly, the whole thing could fall apart.

Sherlock briefly flicked his gaze toward John. He was seated on a stool at a nearby bench. His head rested on his folded arms, his mouth hanging open a bit as he slumbered. Suddenly, John's phone started to ring. Reluctantly John raised his head and groaned in annoyance. But, he picked up the phone to answer it anyway.

"Yeah, speaking," John said, still sounding gruff. "Er, what?" John jumped to his feet and immediately looked awake and alert. "What happened? Is she okay?" John started to pace the lab.

"Oh, my God. Right, yes, I'm coming. On my way!" John switched his phone off.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked in a measured tone.

"Paramedics. It's Kyrie, she's been shot."

"What? How?" Sherlock kept his tone as flat as he could possibly manage.

John paced up and down and frantically pulled his hand over his face. "Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract... Fuck... Fucking hell. She's dying!" he said, sounding as he could scarcely believe his own words. "She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go." John quickly turned in the direction of the door.

"You go. I'm busy," Sherlock said. _Stay calm... Look bored._ When John turned around to face him, he looked absolutely appalled. It was hard to not cringe. It was also hard to notice how easy it was to trick John into thinking he really didn't care.

"Busy?" John asked.

"Thinking. I need to think," Sherlock clarified.

"You need to...? For God's sake, Sherlock! She is your fucking wife! Doesn't she meant anything to you? After all the shit you put her through. Not to mention you once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

Sherlock shrugged. "She's my wife," he replied, scrunching up his nose as if that should be completely obvious.

"She's dying!" John said slowly, punctuating each word with a gesture of his hand, as if he were talking to an idiot. "You machine!" John looked away, no longer able to look at him. Sherlock quickly swallowed a lump away. He could feel his façade of disinterest slipping slightly and immediately struggled to get it back up again.

"Sod this," John said, shaking his head. "Sod this." John quickly marched to the door. "You stay here if you want, on your own."

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

"No, Sherlock. Friends protect people. And yes, 'alone' is what you have, but not what you had. 'Cause you had a wife and a friend. Congratulations, you now have 'alone'."

Sherlock watched John storm from the room. He had expected this to be harder. But at the moment, he just felt numb.

Soon after John had slammed the door shut behind him, Sherlock's phone chimed, signalling he'd received a message.

\- I'm waiting...  
JM

He stared at the message for a brief moment before he took his feet off the bench and raised himself. He walked across the lab with measured and deliberate movements. He buttoned his jacket, picked up his coat and made his way to the door. When he walked through, he didn't bother to take a last look behind him...

SSS

John didn't even wait for the taxi to come to a full stop. He jumped out and hurried towards the door of his home. He struggled with the door a bit before he tumbled inside. Once inside, his jaw dropped in surprise when he was met with some tattooed bald handyman, standing at the top of a stepladder, just in front of the stairs. He was drilling a hole into the wall and Mrs Hudson was standing nearby, watching him work, acting as if nothing was amiss, not a care in the world.

John ran up to her. When Mrs Hudson noticed him, she started with a fright. "Oh, God, John! You made me jump!"

He could only stare at her in confusion. What the hell was going on? "Mrs Hudson? But..."

"Is everything okay now with the police? Has, um, Sherlock sorted it all out?" she asked him.

"I am going to kill Mycroft, once all this is over and done with!" Kyrie said loudly as she came stomping down the stairs.

"No luck, dear?" Mrs Hudson forgot she had asked John a question when she looked up at Kyrie.

"Can't find bloody anything. I don't even know what it is I'm looking for! Oh, hey John!" she greeted him when she noticed him. She then furrowed her brows as she gave him a closer look. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Kyrie?" It was all he could manage, as he was breathing heavily. He couldn't quite process what was going on. He had expected to come here, to find Mrs Hudson crying her eyes out with paramedics rushing around Kyrie in an attempt to save her life. Then he understood. He closed his eyes. "Oh my God," he groaned in horror. He had been so stupid. Of course Sherlock wouldn't have been so... What had he been thinking?

"We need to go. Now, Kyrie," he said urgently. "I think Sherlock is about to do something very stupid!" John didn't wait for her. He just turned around and ran back outside, trusting Kyrie to not linger behind.

"Taxi!" John called out when he noticed a cab approaching to his left. He quickly ran across the road towards it, not surprised to hear Kyrie's footsteps falling against the ground right behind him. Thankfully the cab began to pull over on the other side of the road. Someone else was already leaning into the front window to tell the driver where they wanted to go, but John just ran around.

"No. no. no. no. Police!" John yelled, not about to let some random guy take this cab. He yanked open the back door and scrambled inside, pulling Kyrie inside as well the moment she was in arms reach.

"Oh, thanks, mate!" the guy outside cried out in anger. "Thanks a lot!"

John told the cabbie to drive to Bart's as Kyrie shut the door behind her.

"John, you know I trust you implicitly, but what the hell is going on?" Kyrie asked him.

He didn't dare to meet her eyes. He didn't want to tell her that his best friend had managed to fool him when he should have known better. He didn't want to tell her that his best friend and her husband was probably very busy with getting himself into a lot of danger.

He closed his eyes and tried to swallow a lump away. He now understood why Sherlock had sent him the message and not Kyrie. If Kyrie had been there with him and Kyrie had gotten a call about him getting shot or... even Mrs Hudson... She would not have believed his cold demeanour, not for a moment. She would have seen right through him and called his bluff.

Though John had known Sherlock a lot longer, Kyrie had proven to know him better. She had never doubted him in this. Not even once, not for a single moment. He had. Just briefly, a second. It had been enough.

Finally, he met her eyes, he knew that one look on his face would explain her everything she needed to know. It did. She turned her head away but her hand sought his. They clasped their hands together tightly and the drive continued in silence.


	33. Goodbye

**A/N Get your tissues or hankies ready. It is here guys... the fall.**

 **First of all, a heartfelt thank you, again, to all of you who are reading and following this story. Thank you for following and faving this. I love writing Sherlock and Kyrie, though it's really hard to write from his perspective and do him justice (it's the reason I primarily write from Kyrie's POV). Wow, guess what guys, the story hit over 7.000 views already! I'm am... awed!**

 **Katt96 get your tissues ready girl, snuggle up with a comfort blanky and have some cocoa. The feels are coming in.**

 **DreamonAlinea Sorry sweetie, no spoilers. And wow, reading all this on your phone... RESPECT!**

 **Guest Oh, I wish I could tell you what's coming... but I can't... I know you want fluff to make up for the (upcoming) heartbreak but... I really can't say... Just one thing. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You'll know what I mean when you get there (not this chapter though).**

 **EllemichelleP Nice to see you haven't abandoned this story! I'm sorry sweetie, have some tissues. I is sorry!**

 **Katmondo Thank you so much! I can ask for no greater compliment, than when you say the romance between Sherlock and Kyrie is well-done and believable. I don't care about much else, except for that. It's all I wish to achieve in this story... to create a romance in the Sherlock universe that people can enjoy and, just for a moment, believe... Thank you.**

 **EDIT (as a quick reply to the review of Guest and also judygrasham). I can promise you that Gerulf won't assault Kyrie. Not in 'that' way at least. It really has no place in this story. He had a go at her, he was stopped... that's it. But, something is coming. But not that. I hope you read this and this will set your mind at ease.**

 **Judygrasham... to answer your question... Yes, I do _plan_ to insert Kyrie into the series all the way to the end :-)**

SSS

Sherlock's mind was still reeling, trying to process the bomb Moriarty had just dropped on him. There was no keyCode. Mycroft had been wrong. He had been wrong. Okay... no keyCode... No quick way to bring back Moriarty. No quick way to root out his network. But, perhaps he could still find another way out of this mess. His mind was racing to find a way that could possibly lead to a different conclusion than his death.

"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity," spat at him.

Jim sighed in exasperation. "Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort."

Sherlock turned away and started pacing, still mulling over the several different ways to approach this. Anything... that could help him leave this roof alive.

"Go on. For me. Pleeeeeeease?" Jim squealed that last word in a high-pitched tone. Sherlock could no longer stand this maniac mocking him and he whirled around in one swift motion. He quickly grabbed Jim by the collar of his coat with both of his hands and spun him around in such a way that his back was now turned to the drop. Sherlock breathed heavily but Jim refused to cringe, blink or even look mildly intimidated. He stared into Jim's face and shoved him back, one step closer to the edge.

"You're insane," Sherlock hissed at him, baring his teeth.

Jim merely blinked up at him. "Really? You're just getting that now?"

Sherlock immediately shoved him so far back, that Jim was dangling over the edge. Jim whooped in mock fear and he flailed his arms, but there was no fear in his eyes. He then held his hands out wide, committing himself to Sherlock's grasp, almost daring him to let him drop.

"Okay," Jim said, looking up at him, "Let me give you a little extra incentive."

Sherlock frowned at him. What was he up to now?

"Your friends will die if you don't," Jim growled at him and Sherlock did not doubt his sincerity. He could feel his blood run cold as ice... His friends. He did not have many. They all mattered. But at this moment it was imperative that one of them was safe. Or he WOULD die, for real...

"John," Sherlock said, trying to pull the information out of Jim.

"Not just John," Jim said with a smile. "Everyone," he whispered.

"Mrs Hudson."

" _Everyone_."

"Lestrade."

"Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There's no stopping them now."

Sherlock glared at Jim as he pulled him back up to safety. Well, at least he had his answer. Molly was still standing by, able to help him stage his death if he couldn't find a different viable way out. Moriarty had overlooked Molly, his big mistake.

One thing was still bothering him though.

"Kyrie?" Sherlock breathed.

"Ho-oh!" Jim grinned. "Worried about your wife-y? I knew you wouldn't count her as your friend. Don't worry, she'll be safe. We both know there's something else in store for her. She won't die, but your friends will. Unless my people see you jump.

Sherlock gazed past him. He realised it now... he would not find a way to just leave this roof and return to his life in Baker Street. He would have to carry out the plan all the way to the end. And he would not see his friends, or Kyrie, for a very long time.

Jim shook himself free from his grasp and smiled at him in triumph. "You can have me arrested. You can torture me. You can do anything you like with me, but nothing is going prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die. Unless..."

"... unless I kill myself. Complete your story," Sherlock softly finished for him.

Jim nodded at him and smiled joyously. "You've gotta admit, that's sexier."

Sherlock tried to come to peace with what needed to happen. Funny, he thought he'd come to peace with it some months ago. Turns out... he really hadn't. It was very difficult, to press on and embrace his fate. "And I die in disgrace," he muttered.

"Of course," Jim said in pragmatic tone. "That's the point of this, after all. Haven't you figured it out yet? This isn't _just_ our final problem."

Sherlock snapped his eyes at Jim. "Then what else is this for?"

"I have a client," Jim whispered and then giggled. "Come on, Sherlock. You were so close earlier. You have three friends and...?"

"Kyrie."

"A wife... yes. Have you figured out who my client is yet? How he fits so neatly into all of this?"

"Gerulf Schricken," Sherlock said in disgust. How had he not seen this?

"So adorably obsessed with a woman he can't have. And when I say adorably, I actually mean..." Jim made a gagging sound. "But, he wants you dead. Has wanted you dead for quite some time now. But he couldn't exactly do anything to you, could he? With all his power and connections, all the ways he could kill you off... that little bit of history with your wife would immediately make him suspect. Unless..."

"Unless you could find a way that would lead to me killing myself," Sherlock said with a wry smile.

Jim giggled again. "It was _so_ easy. Just plant some false evidence of a scary computer keyCode. Big brother Mycroft did the rest."

"And once I'm dead?" Sherlock asked through clenched teeth.

"We will have solved our Final Problem and Gerulf gets what he wants. Your lovely wife. I can see why you like her, she wasn't fooled once by Richard Brook. John had a moment of weakness though. _He_ doubted. But not her. She's quite the trophy, isn't she?"

"She's _not_ a trophy," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "And trust me, Gerulf won't like her very much when I'm gone."

"Won't he? We know your marriage is not real, Sherlock. Yes, there was a moment he had his doubts, like when she was oh so willing to catch a bullet for you. But then again, she was also willing to marry _him_ to save your parents. Average people... they can be so _adorably_ altruistic, don't you think?"

"It won't work," Sherlock insisted.

"But it will. Kyrie will be left with the same choice she had to make before you married her..."

"Assuming Gerulf will still want her, after my _suicide_."

"Well, only time will tell, won't it? Besides, whether he will still want her or not, is not my problem. He wanted you out of the way, I provided. I wanted to solve our Final Problem... and here we are."

Jim looked over the side and saw someone had stopped at the benches near the bus stop far below them. Several other people were walking on and off in the vicinity.

"Oh, you've got an audience now. Off you pop," Jim said as he rolled his head from sided to side. "Go on."

Sherlock gave in and slowly stepped past him, up onto the ledge.

"I told you how this ends."

Sherlock looked down. His body was betraying him again. His eyes were wide open in fear, his heart was racing, his breathing shaky... and this time he was not under the influence of a drug. This time he was genuinely afraid. But, he had to go through with this.

"Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers," Jim told Sherlock as he stood behind him. "I'm certainly not gonna do it."

From the corner of his eyes, Sherlock saw Jim looking up at him expectantly. He blinked nervously. His mind was racing. He was still struggling against the very thought of having to stage his death. Even though his chances were slim, he still hoped to be able to go down a path that would not lead to his suicide.

"Would you give me... one moment, please. One moment, of privacy?" he pleaded, glancing down at Jim. "Please?"

Jim smiled at him and Sherlock knew exactly how Jim saw him that moment. _Unremarkable_. He smiled wryly at the thought.

"Of course," Jim said and he walked away from Sherlock across the roof. Sherlock looked ahead of him again. His breathing shallow and anxious. His right hand slipped into his pocket and curled around his phone. What should he order? His death? He had to. He saw no other way out. He let out another shaky breath. This was it then. He thought how cold he felt and how he would miss... certain things.

Suddenly his breath caught in his throat for a brief moment. There was something that sparked inside his brain, a brief memory... What was it? What was it that Moriarty had just said?

Ah! He flared his eyes and he curled his lips into a smile. It would seem he would be able to get back to his 'ordinary' life after all! Sherlock started to chuckle in delight and then he erupted in relieved laughter.

"What?" Jim called out behind him, sounding quite agitated. "What is it?"

Sherlock was still laughing when he turned halfway around to face Jim, feeling quite proud of himself.

"What did I miss?" Jim demanded.

Sherlock lightly hopped down of the ledge and sauntered over to his enemy. " _You're_ not going to do it? So the killers _can_ be called off, then. There's a recall code or a word or a number," Sherlock said as he started circling Moriarty, feeling like a predator stalking its prey. "I don't have to die... _if I've got you,"_ he chanted, smirking at Jim. Wow, that was a horrible attempt! He should probably leave that to Kyrie.

"Oh!" Jim laughed while profusely blinking his eyes. "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied immediately, still circling Jim. "So do you."

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to," Jim said, sounding bored again.

Sherlock stopped circling and stepped right up to Jim so they were up close and personal. "Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" he reminded Jim on a whisper. "I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to _burn_. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in Hell? I shall not disappoint you," Sherlock assured him.

Jim slowly shook his head in disbelief and scowled at him. "Naaah. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're Mr Ordinary now, married to Mrs Ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels," he admitted. "But don't think for one _second_ that I am one of them," he hissed in slightly warning tone.

Their eyes met and for a long moment they seized each other up. Each of them trying to determine how far the other was willing to go.

"No, you're not," Jim said, slowly blinking his eyes. Sherlock blinked back at him, wondering at the deranged smile he suddenly saw on Jim's face. "I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me," Jim said. "You're me! Thank you!"

Sherlock kept a blank look on his face, even though it was quite disconcerting to see this brilliant mind suddenly unravel right in front of him... genius, but also mad as a hatter. Jim suddenly raised is right hand as if he wanted to embrace Sherlock, but quickly reconsidered and offered his hand for him to shake. "Thank you, Sherlock Holmes," Jim said solemnly.

For a moment, they both looked down at the offered hand, before Sherlock tentatively returned the gesture and clasped his hand to his. A sign of mutual respect, of some sorts.

"Thank you," Jim said, nodding his head as if he was actually grateful. "Bless you."

Jim blinked and looked away from Sherlock. "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out," he said in acceptance. "Well, good luck with that," Jim said.

He flashed Sherlock a brief smirk before he opened his mouth wide. In a flurry of movements, Jim pulled Sherlock closer towards him, while at the same timer reaching into his waistband with his free hand. In the blink of an eye, Jim suddenly nearly swallowed the barrel of a gun.

Sherlock gasped, "No!" and reeled back in instinct as Jim pulled the trigger and the gun discharged a bullet straight through his brain. His body instantly dropped to the roof. Sherlock stumbled on his feet as he stared in shock at the body that lay before him. Blood began to seep from Jim's head, his unseeing eyes staring off in the distance, a last smile of victory frozen on his lips.

"No!" Sherlock cried out, spinning away from the body. He grunted and his breathing became frantic and terribly uneven. He cradled his head in despair. How much time did he have? When would the assassins pull the trigger. Damn it! He didn't want to go! But... he had to make a decision... he had to make one now! He pulled out his phone, his fingers trembling violently. Damn, damn, damn! So little time... LAZARUS. That's what he decided on and then he sent the message.

Sherlock turned to look back at Jim frozen smile, but just briefly. He instantly spun around again, covering his mouth with his sleeve in shocked disgust. He tried to get a grip on himself, it was no use if now of all times he would allow himself to be distracted by emotions.

His phone chimed. Sherlock quickly checked the message. LAZARUS IS GO.

Right. Right. He slowly turned towards the edge of the building, his breathing evened out as he stepped onto the ledge. He took a few steadying breaths as he looked down. The wind messed with his hair and played with his Belstaff coat. Far below him, he noticed how a taxi pulled up and then John scrambled outside, followed by Kyrie. Sherlock tried to smile, but his lips were trembling too much.

Sherlock, still holding his phone in his hand, selected a speed dial. He swallowed a lump away. He could hear John's phone ring from up there on the ledge and he saw John raise the phone to his ear as he and Kyrie trotted towards Barts.

"Hello?" John said on the other end of the line.

"John," Sherlock said to him. "Can you put the phone on speaker please?"

"Hey Sherlock, sure. Um... are you okay?"

Sherlock heard a muffled sound.

"You're on speaker now," John said. "Kyrie is here with me too."

"Turn around and walk back the way you came-"

"No, We're coming in," John said, cutting him off.

"Just _do_ as I _ask,"_ Sherlock implored him in an urgent voice. "Please."

"Where are you, Sherlock?" Kyrie asked.

Sherlock looked down, a sad smile tugging at his lips when he saw she'd ran out the door without her coat again... for him... It brought back memories of that second evening when she came to live with them. God, he'd been such a cock that day.

"Where?" John asked when he didn't respond. Both he and Kyrie were pacing up and down the street, trying to determine where he could be.

"Stop there," he requested. They both stopped immediately.

"Sherlock?" John asked hesitantly.

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

"You what?" Kyrie cried out. Sherlock saw how they both turned and looked up at him at the same time. "Oh God!" she then cried out with a strangled voice when she saw him standing high above her.

"I... I... I can't come down, so we'll... we'll just have to do it like this," Sherlock said, realising that the few fleeting moments he had left with them, were slowly slipping away.

"What's going on?" John asked anxiously.

"What do you mean, you can't come down?" Kyrie asked, her voice trembling.

"An apology," he said. "It's all true." He was surprised how he managed to keep his voice so level. He certainly wasn't feeling level right now.

"What?!" John and Kyrie cried out at the same time.

"Everything they said about me. _I_ invented Moriarty," Sherlock explained as he briefly glanced over his shoulder to look at Jim's frozen smirk.

"Cut the crap, Sherlock!" Kyrie tried to say sternly, but the quiver in her voice betrayed her. "I don't believe that, you know I don't!"

"Why are you saying this?" John asked.

Sherlock had to swallow away a lump. By now he didn't just realise he wasn't as divorced from his feelings as he'd once thought, he could FEEL it. The tears rolling down his cheeks, the pain sweeping through him... they were as real as his deductions. And as important.

"I'm a fake," Sherlock admitted, his voice breaking.

"Sherlock..."

From high above them, Sherlock could see the anxious looks on the face of his best friend... and his wife. The knowledge that after this, he wouldn't be able to see or talk with them for a long, long time... It left him raw and Sherlock had difficulty to keep himself composed.

"The newspapers were right all along," he told them, his voice thick with tears. "I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs Hudson. And Molly... In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you... that I created Moriarty... for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met... the first time _we_ _met_ , you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could, Sherlock," Kyrie said. Her faith in him, as ever, was unwavering. "YOU could."

Sherlock laughed and gazed down fondly at her and his best friend. He could feel a tear itching down his cheek, quivering on his chin for a moment, before it fell. Like he would, soon. _Look at that, the great Sherlock Holmes, bested by emotions after al_ _l,_ he thought.

"I researched you, John. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. And Kyrie, Mycroft told me anything I needed to know, about you, that night," Sherlock sniffed a bit. "It's a trick," he then admitted. "Just a magic trick."

From his high position, so far removed from them, he could still see Kyrie fervently shaking her head. "You couldn't know I would walk out on you that evening, or that on that evening the emotional shock of what happened would set in."

"I saved all that knowledge for the right moment, Kyrie. I'm a fraud."

"No. All right, stop it now. I don't know what you are up to, but it's not funny. You can't come to us? Fine, we'll come up to you," John muttered.

Sherlock looked down and saw John marching towards the hospital entrance with Kyrie trailing right behind him. She had her arms wrapped around her and was shivering lightly.

"No!" Sherlock cried out, his voice sounding urgent. He held up his hand in a halting gesture, as if that could actually help to stop them. "Stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

John and Kyrie both skidded to a halt. John raised his hand, looking up at Sherlock to show he was complying with his wish.

"All right, we stopped," Kyrie said. "Now what?"

Sherlock was breathing rapidly, the hand he had still stretched out at his friend, was trembling slightly. He had to bring this conversation to a close. He didn't want to, he wanted to say so much more, but he didn't know how much time he had before the assassins would follow up on their order.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," he told them, his voice slightly tinged with an edge of hysteria. "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" John asked him, sounding confused.

"This phone call... it's, err, it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

Sherlock needed to swallow away another lump. How fitting it was, that the clouds decided to break open right at that moment. Raindrops soon mingled with his tears.

Looking beneath him, he saw how people were getting in position. Soon they would be ready and they would be waiting for him to make his move. He could see how John shook his head, not wanting to accept what his was hearing. He actually physically held the phone away from them, as if he didn't want to hear another word. Kyrie's face just looked... grief-stricken.

"Leave a note when," John asked tentatively. Sherlock heard a sudden muffled sound and saw how Kyrie wrestled the phone from John's hands.

"Sherlock, please don't!" she pleaded frantically. "I don't know what happened up there, but we can work things out, okay?" she asked tearfully. "Do you want me to beg? 'Cause I will beg, Sherlock Holmes..."

He saw her look up at him from below and for once, he was glad he couldn't see her eyes clearly. He knew he would see nothing but bare, naked pain within them. "I'm _begging_ you...please..." she whispered. "Don't leave us... don't leave _me_ behind... I lo-"

"Goodbye, Kyrie, John," he said, cutting her off. He had to do what needed to be done and the unexpected severity of their emotions – even, unexpectedly, his own – proved to become somewhat of an unforeseen obstacle.

Kyrie looked up in horror. John just shook his head, unwilling to accept what was happening. "No. Don't!" John warned him.

Sherlock gazed down at his friend and his wife for just a few more lingering moments. He swallowed again before he tore his gaze away from them. He lowered his arm and carelessly dropped the phone on the roof. He stared ahead of himself, looking off into the distance. His eyes no longer seeing, but his mind seeing all the more as he recalled the happy moments he'd spend with John and later with Kyrie when she'd come to live with them. If violet was a feeling, then that was what he felt right now.

He could hear both Kyrie and John screaming their lungs out. "No. Sherlock!"

He spread his arms to either side of his body and allowed his body to fall forward. There was this surreal sensation, his body briefly suspended in the air, his toes connected to the roof for that last brief moment, before he plummeted towards the ground.

SSS

Kyrie looked up in horror. One moment he was still standing on the roof, talking to them and the next he... was gone, he'd just disappeared from her line of vision. A startled gasp tore from her throat when she heard a sickening crush not far from her.

She lunged forward, willing her feet to reach Sherlock as fast as soon as was humanly possible. Her world became one of silence and fear. She could no longer hear anything but her own heart beating in her chest and the sound of her blood pounding in her ears.

Kyrie ran towards the corner of the building that was obscuring her view, as she rounded it, she skidded to a halt, right in the middle of the road. She caught the first glimpse of her husband, lying motionless on the ground. She only saw the upper part of his body as a lorry parked at the roadside prevented her to see the rest.

Time seemed to slow down, like thick syrup slowly trickling from a bottle. Kyrie forced herself to start moving again. Suddenly she got bowled over as if she were little more than a bowling pin. She sensed rather than she could see, how John crashed down on top her, taking her with him to the ground. Right before her head connected with the asphalt of the ground, she briefly saw a young man on a road racing bike quickly speeding away.

Kyrie groaned in pain and fought to not pass out. She tried to shove John away from her, her eyes only fixed on the still figure of her husband, sprawled over the pavement. People began to rush towards the body.

The lorry pulled away and suddenly a few medics from Bart's appeared on the scene, immediately trying to prevent curious onlookers from getting too close.

At that moment, Kyrie paid no attention to John. He was not important to her that moment. Kyrie hauled herself to her feet and took a few wobbly steps. Her feet were unsteady but she stumbled forwards anyway. More people gathered around, there were excited whispers and Kyrie loathed them all.

Kyrie immediately elbowed her way through the crowd. "He's my husband, let me pass. Let me come through, please! He's my husband!" she started yelling and screaming, pushing people to the side that prevented her from reaching Sherlock. Anyone that even dared to try and hold her back, could expect a kick or an elbow to the face. "Let me through! He's my husband! Please!"

She groaned in disbelief, seeing the puddle of blood mixing with the rain on the ground. The moment she saw an opening, she threw herself towards him, but a woman pulled her back before she could even touch him. Kyrie struggled herself loose and tried to reach him again as more medics arrived with a wheeled stretcher.

"Please, let me just..." Kyrie pleaded. Her legs refused to cooperate and she slowly slumped to the ground. Still, she tried to crawl forwards, ignoring the two bystanders who tried to support her. Sherlock was gently rolled onto his back and Kyrie suddenly looked into his wide staring eyes. His hair was wet with rain and blood and was sticking to his face. The crimson colour made his face look even paler than usual. And his lips... bloodless and pale... had an odd look of surprise still lingering on them.

She tried to stand, but her legs instantly gave in again. A sound of despair ripped through the air. It was a lament full of pain, grief and loss. The sound held on and chilled her to the bones. The whispering stopped, everything stopped. Except for that one primal wail. There was nothing even remotely beautiful about it. It was just the sound of anguish and deep raw pain, of a heart that had been cut open and left to bleed out.  
A sudden burning sensation in her throat made her realise that the awful noise was coming from her.

She looked on, helpless to do anything against it, when Sherlock's body was lifted onto the stretcher and then rapidly got wheeled away. Her voice broke and so did her heart. She hung her head and looked down, watching as the rain washed his blood from the pavement.


	34. Like Swans

**A/N Aw... poor Kyrie is not doing well. Send her some love peeps. She needs it! Thankfully, there is a small ray of hope at the end of the chapter. Enjoy! I hate to make you all so sad, but I'm proud to read so many emotional reviews. Means I did something right!**

 **Guest, I'm not sure if you read the edit in my last chapter. If you worry about Gerulf sexually assaulting Kyrie again. You can rest at ease. Like I said, he tried it and he was thwarted in his attempt. There will be not other attempt at that. Stuff will happen, but I promise you the pay off will be great!**

 **Judygrasham. Eventually there will be fluffy fluffiness in this story as well... Sherlock style of course because we all know he'll never be a Casanova or Don Juan, now don't we?**

 **Katt96 [tosses tissues] Here you go, sweetie! Don't worry, it's just a few chapters of sadness. He is coming back of course!**

 **Frazzle OMG you read this in one day! That's um... over 200 pages worth of reading I think? Nicely done! And thanks for leaving me a review!**

 **DreamonAlina Good to know you are back! I agree that her crying 'he's my husband' has a bit more impact than 'he's my friend'... for me anyway.**

 **EllemichelleP Because I'm a mean heartless b*tch who likes to make her readers suffer. Mwuahahaha! Nah just kidding. I just love me some emotional pay off. This is just me... setting up for the pay off!**

 **SSS**

Kyrie Holmes stood in front of the group of people who had come to attend Sherlock's funeral. She was wearing a simple A-Line, off the shoulder, black dress.

For her, time had come to a grinding stop. Even though the planet still revolved around its own axis, wind was still blowing, and somewhere birds still burst out in jubilant song. Somewhere, things were still beautiful, full of colour and life. Not like this muted palette of dulled eyes and solemn faces.

Kyrie briefly cast her eyes up to the sky. The sun was still casting down its luminous rays, they just didn't penetrate the bleak blanket of despair that had descended upon her. She was looking through a haze of grief so thick, it marred her own perception of the world around her. The only feeling still left inside of her, was cold.

Everyone from the Yard was attending, even the once who'd never even liked Sherlock. Anderson and Donovan looked like they felt uncomfortable being there and weren't quite able to meet her eyes. John, Mycroft, Molly and Mrs Hudson were sitting in the front. There were a lot of people she didn't know, though a few of them she recognised as clients Sherlock had solved a case for.

She tried to hold back the tears that were already pooling in her eyes. Sing a song at his funeral, please, John had asked her. Even though he knew she didn't like to perform in public. But, he was right about one thing. It would be her last chance to sing for him.

Kyrie nodded almost imperceptibly, signalling she was ready. Though it wasn't a funeral song, she could only imagine herself singing one song. One song only. She had not had the chance to tell him how she felt while he was still alive, so she would sing how she felt now that he was dead. The mournful tones of violin strings drifted towards her.

"O mio babbino caro," she started singing. It was a plea to her beloved father. "Mi piace, è bello, bello," she sang to her father about the man she loved so dearly, who was so handsome and beautiful to her. She put all of her emotions and feelings in every note she lovingly trilled.

"E se l'amassi indarno..." She warned that if her love would be in vain... "Andrei sul Ponte Vecchio, ma per buttarmi in Arno!" Then she would go to the Ponte Vecchio, to throw herself in the arms of the Arno.

"Mi struggo e mi tormento, o Dio! Vorrei morir!" Kyrie poured all of her sorrow in those words... I am anguished and tormented. Oh God! I want to die!

The violins continued their sorrowful notes and suddenly Kyrie found herself just standing there, unable to sing the last words. Her voice stilled. Her parents were gone and now the man she'd fallen in love with... though she hadn't meant to, hadn't even wanted to... now he was gone too.

She blinked a few times and just stood there, until someone put their arm around her shoulders and gently guided her off the podium. She did not see him, but she recognised his scent. It was John.

When it was time, all of the assembled solemnly watched as Sherlock's coffin was lowered into the ground.

After the service, John and Kyrie headed back to Baker Street. While walking across the gravel of the path, she past Mycroft and did not even acknowledge his presence. He might just as well be dead to her too.

The media of course had a field day, filling their newspapers and magazines with articles about 'Sherlock Holmes the Fraud Detective' with straplines like 'Suicide of Fake Genius'. There was even a newspaper that put a picture of her on the front page, showing her with a hollow, dead look in her eyes, with the strapline 'The Broken Nightingale."

The following days, weeks maybe, Kyrie just went to bed, Sherlock's bed, and slept. When she woke up to find that things were the same... she would take a drink and then another drink.

She didn't even like the stuff, it tasted vile, but the alcohol managed to take the edge from that crippling pain she was feeling constantly.

If she wasn't sleeping, or drinking... she was crying, often for a couple of hours. After that, she would flop down on the sofa and watch tv. Unless there was something on about Sherlock, or something that reminded her of Sherlock. Usually there was. And then she would take a sleeping pill.

Because the nights were the very worst. In her dreams, every night, Kyrie relived that moment where he was standing on the roof. Every night she begged him not to leave her. But every night, Sherlock spread his arms and let his body plunge from the roof.

Every night, she saw his broken body. Every night she saw his precious face staring up at her, his eyes devoid of that amber spark, that green glint or the softly blazing blue. They were... empty. Every night she wanted to reach him, touch his face, anything, but every night he was taken from her before she could say goodbye.

And every night, she woke op screaming. She thought it would drive her insane. So, John had prescribed some sleeping pills for her to allow her to drift off in a dreamless sleep.

At some point, John left the flat. He could no longer stand living there, he wanted a fresh start. More than likely he couldn't handle her grief along with his own, though he said he wanted to put his friend to rest without being confronted with his loss every single day. Kyrie understood, she really too should find another place. But she couldn't. Not yet.

There was one day where John managed to goad her back to life, just a little. It was the day that Sherlock's headstone had been installed. He had come round to see how she was doing. Just the same really... "Are you coming with us?" he asked her, peeking his head around the door as she was curled up in Sherlock's bed. She opened a bleary eye, thought for a moment, then nodded her head.

SSS

John, Kyrie and Mrs Hudson were sitting in the back of a taxi. No one said a word during their ride to the graveyard. Mrs Hudson was cradling a bouquet of calla lilies. Kyrie had one single red rose with her.

Not long after the drive, the three of them quietly walked down the path leading to Sherlock's grave. Kyrie was standing to John's right, while Mrs Hudson flanked him on his left. Mrs Hudson carefully placed the bouquet of flower at the base of the headstone and Kyrie gently laid down the rose.

She hugged herself while staring at the headstone. It had all felt so unreal, but now she was standing here, seeing his name gilded on the polished black granite stone in gold leaf lettering... It felt so definite.

"Flowers! Why does it always have to be flowers?" Sherlock was standing right next to her, glaring at the offending bouquet. "The headstone is not too bad I suppose, as far as headstones go at least."

Kyrie ignored him. No use to disagree with him now. John would only want her to use medication to make him go away and... she didn't want that to happen.

Mrs Hudson rubbed a soothing hand along John's arm.

"There's all the stuff, all the science equipment. I left it all in boxes. I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it to a school. Would you...?"

"I can't go back to the flat again. Not at the moment," John quickly said. Mrs Hudson hugged his arm in sympathy.

"I'm angry," John said. He took a deep steadying breath through his nose and Kyrie knew he was trying hard not to break down and cry like a child.

"It's okay, John," Mrs Hudson said as she gently patted his arm. "There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel."

She gazed at the smooth black granite and his name. There was no other text gilded on the headstone. No quotes, no poems, no emotional sentiments... Just his name. It suited him.

"All the marks on my table. And the noise... Firing guns at half past one in the morning!"

Kyrie could feel the beginnings of a smile tug at her lips, but it was too feeble.

"Yeah," John said quietly.

"Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine, keeping bodies where there's food!"

"Yes." John closed his eyes at Mrs. Hudson's words.

"Where else would I keep my experiments? Don't store food where I keep my severed fingers, and toes, and kidneys!" Sherlock looked at John with a scowl on his face.

"Kept..." Kyrie corrected him.

"Sorry, what?" John asked her. She shook her head. "Nothing, sorry," she mumbled, casting a careful glare at Sherlock, warning him not to distract her.

"And the fighting!" Mrs Hudson suddenly burst out. "Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!"

John arched his brow at her. "Yeah, listen... I-I'm not actually _that_ angry, okay?"

She nodded. "Okay." She smiled up at him before she pulled her arm back and turned to leave. "I'll leave you two alone to, erm..." her voice croaked a bit. "... you know, say goodbye." Kyrie could hear her sob quietly when she walked away.

John cleared his throat a couple of times. He tried to say something a few times, but the words wouldn't quite come. He squared his shoulders and suddenly wrapped an arm around her shoulders, gently pulling her against him. Kyrie closed her eyes and leaned into him.

"You... you told me once that you weren't a hero," John said, directing his words at the cold granite headstone. Um... There were times I didn't even think you were human..."

Kyrie smiled sadly.

"But, let me tell you this..." John continued. "You were the best man. And the most human... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so... There."

Kyrie rested her head against his shoulder as he blew out a steadying breath. He sniffed. He let go of his hold on her shoulders and took a step towards the headstone and gently placed his fingertips on the top edge of the stone.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

Kyrie hugged herself again. She knew John did not hold it against her, how she had withdrawn from him in her grief. Because, in his own grief, he had done the same.

John took a shaky breath and nodded his head. "Okay. I will see you around, sometime?" John asked her, but she didn't answer him. He turned around to leave, but only managed a few steps before he abruptly turned around again.

"No, please. There's one more thing, mate, one more thing... One more miracle, Sherlock. For us. Don't... be..." His voice was think with tears and started to break. "Dead... Would you do...? Just for us. Just Kyrie... and me, just stop it." He gestured at the grave. "Stop _this_."

Sherlock stayed silent this time, no wisecracks or scathing remarks. John sighed and lowered his head. Kyrie heard him weeping quietly. She turned towards him and they both pulled each other in for a hug at the same time.

"Promise me something?" John whispered, his voice thick with tears. Kyrie just nodded. "In time, when we are both... better... we will meet again, yeah?"

"Of course," she whispered. "When talking about the good old days doesn't feel..."

"... like a wrecking ball is punching a hole inside of you?" he asked. Kyrie nodded against his shoulder.

"So it's agreed then... This is just 'So long', not 'Good-bye'."

"Agreed," she whispered, letting him go. John then turned back to the headstone and stood at attention for his best friend. He nodded in salute, then turned on one heel in military style, and walked away.

Kyrie remained. Sherlock was still standing next to her so, she didn't want to go.

"Don't stay... like _this_ , Kyrie," he told her softly.

"Like what?" she asked, playing dumb, though she knew what he was getting at. What she herself was getting at, actually.

"Don't play coy. You know what I mean."

"You like them violet, I know. Can't help it, Sherlock. You shouldn't have died then," Kyrie said, her voice trembling.

"I am sorry, for..." he stopped.

"...breaking my heart?" she finished for him.

"I was gonna say 'dying', but yes... that too, I suppose. Was it worth it, in the end?" he asked quietly. "Was _I_?"

Kyrie stayed silent for a while before she finally nodded her head. "Yes, Sherlock," she stated simply. "Some things are worth getting your heart broken for."

She then turned around and left him behind.

SSS

Time past by and things... did not improve for her. She wouldn't let them. She didn't go out, she didn't answer phone calls. Kyrie simply withdrew from life. Sherlock didn't like it. He complained about it and glared and scowled at her all the time, but she made no effort to change things. Like a forgotten and neglected plant, she started to wither away.

One evening, or morning, could be afternoon in fact, the door to Sherlock's bedroom creaked open. Kyrie heard familiar footsteps and the tell-tale sound of the tip of an umbrella hitting against the floor boards.

"Go away," she said. "I don't want to see you." Kyrie didn't even look up. She was lying on her side, curled up, hidden under Sherlock's sheets. They had long since stopped smelling like him. They now smelled of her. Kyrie had forbidden Mrs Hudson to wash the bed linen, but Mrs Hudson decided enough was enough. She wanted his scent back.

"I see I should have made this call a lot sooner," Mycroft said as he carefully went to sit next to her. "Mummy and Daddy are terribly worried, you know."

"I can't," she whispered. "It hurts. Everyday hurts."

"You have to move on, Kyrie. He's... gone, now. You can't bury yourself with him, you are still alive."

Kyrie pushed herself up... Oh, dizzy... when was the last time she'd eaten anything? She could scarcely remember.

"Look at you," Mycroft told her in mild disgust, "Even Gerulf Schricken would have a hard time maintaining his obsession for you if he'd see you now.

Kyrie smiled humourlessly. "Oh, he already gave that up," she said with a sardonic smirk. "You're right, he didn't like the 'new me' very much. But you already know that. You know _everything_. Except when someone is playing you to get you to spill the beans on your little brother."

Mycroft was silent for a while. "You have to move out, Kyrie," he finally said. "You can't stay here. It's not good for you. It's not healthy."

Kyrie didn't reply.

"He's right, you know," Sherlock said. "You have to go. Leave this place... Let _me_ go."

Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I can't," she whispered. "I can't. He's gone, Mycroft... He's gone and... this is all I have left," she wept brokenly. Suddenly she found his arm wrapped around her shoulders. She clung to his shirt and cried all over his pristine shirt and vest, her body shaking with the wrenching grief that tore from her.

Mycroft, like his brother, was not a man of emotion. He said nothing and he didn't hug her tightly, offered no soothing platitudes. He just presented a shoulder to cry on, it was all he could offer and, to be honest, it was all she really needed.

"First, you will go and visit Mummy and Daddy," Mycroft told her. "Mother will tend to you and make sure you are fit to present yourself again. Then, when the time is right, you will start working again as a personal assistant. I will find you a suitable employer and a suitable place to live. And then... life will on."

"Don't I get a say in this?" Kyrie sniffed.

"None whatsoever."

" _If_ I agree," she said slowly, "That doesn't mean I forgive you, you understand?" She actually meant 'I forgive you'.

Mycroft smiled sadly and said, "Perfectly." It was his way of saying, 'Thank you.'

Soon after, Mycroft transferred her into the loving care of his parents. When she saw them waiting for her, in the entrance of their little cottage, Kyrie all but hurled herself from the car that drove her there. She threw herself into their waiting arms and wept.

Mycroft had been right. His mother was exactly was Kyrie needed. Having lost her own parents and also a reluctant husband she'd grown to love, she needed to feel the love of her other parents.

In their care, Kyrie slowly emerged from the thick haze that had become her grief. A small splash of colour returned to her pale cheeks. It wasn't much, just enough so she at least resembled the living again. She also gained back a bit of much needed weight. The meaningful looks that Mable and George liked to share with each other, did not go entirely unnoticed.

She had been offered to stay in Sherlock's old room. The first few weeks, she practically locked herself in there, hiding in his old bed, wrapped in his old covers and then she cried. No matter where she looked, no matter where she turned, he was always there, hiding in her peripheral view. The moment she would turn to look at him though, he was gone.

During her stay with his parents, Sherlock did not come back to haunt her. It almost made her want to go back to Baker Street, but even she realised that would not make things better.

After those first few weeks, Kyrie tentatively found her way downstairs and Mable showed her how to regain a leash on life, by busying herself with small things. It was the cadence of everyday mundane life that allowed her to slowly push through the pain that had seemed to become her constant companion.

Colour slowly seeped back into her days; they stopped being black and white or grey. Though life had lost its appeal, she did find a way to resume living again.

After a long few months, her life ceased to be merely a struggle of surviving each day. When it stopped to hurt to even hear his name or see his picture, Kyrie found she loved talking about him with his parents. Hearing them tell their stories while sharing stories of her own, she found a way to preserve him in her heart and cherish his memory.

SSS

One evening George Holmes discovered her sitting alone in the library. His daughter-in-law had found the little scrapbook she'd sent them as a Christmas present a few years ago. The last few weeks had been particularly hard on her, with the Holiday season... celebrations and all. It had been the first year, after her wedding, that she'd had to deal with the holidays as a widow. Now that a new year had begun, they would hopefully make some more progress in healing her again.

He went to sit next to her and smiled when he saw her trace a picture of Sherlock with her fingers. The one of his son wearing the deerstalker. He smiled sadly seeing her mournful eyes, swimming with tears, as she gazed lovingly at the picture of his son. It was still strange to see her eyes so pale and crystal like, not at all like the sparkling, vibrant blue and violet he was used to. It saddened his heart, to see her in so much pain. Especially because he knew the truth... But, it secretly also warmed his fatherly heart, tot see that the affections this young woman held for his son were very real.

"I miss my son, everyday," George said quietly. Kyrie looked up startled and he smiled apologetic. She quickly wiped at her eyes, but her thick, sooty lashes still sparkled with tears. "But it is good to see he was loved. He turned into a fine young man. Bit of a prick a times, of course."

Kyrie smiled at him. "He was the best," she said softly.

"I admit, I wasn't always sure how he'd turn out. Always alone and by himself, brooding... not much affinity with other people. But damn clever, just like his mum. Hopeless in matters of the heart though," he said with a chuckle. He turned his head to study the face of his daughter-in-law. "Because, I wanna bet he never told you how much he loved you."

Her eyes widened and her mouthed opened a bit in a quiet gasp. She recovered herself quickly. "I don't think that Sherlock... ever felt that way about me. He kept himself strictly separated from emotions."

"Ah yes, that's what he likes to think of himself. It's not how he truly is though... was," George said, hoping that Kyrie hadn't noticed his little slip up. "He may take after his mother in terms of intellect, when it comes to love... he takes after me."

"But, you love Mable. It's plain to see!" Kyrie said. "It's in everything you say and do."

George smiled, nodding at every word. "That I do, I love my Mabs more than life itself. But I was not always like that. Whatever Sherlock may have told you, he had a great deal of love to give. Just not the tools to... show it. And in a way, because he never experienced love like that before, how could he recognise it when he did feel it?"

"What makes you so certain that Sherlock did have... feelings for me?"

"Because I knew a young woman, much like yourself, a long time ago, with that same warmth and generous heart. She was the one who taught me how it feels to trust, to love and be loved. And I did the only sensible thing I could do... I married her. You see, most men love easily and often, but Sherlock is more like me. Like swans, we love only once, but when we do, it is forever."

She put her hand in front of her mouth. It hurt him to see her so upset, he just wanted her to know that her love had not been so one-sided as she had thought.

"I miss him so much!" she cried. George held her tenderly. "I know you do, sweetheart. It will get better though, I promise!" Yes... it would get better, because George knew that in just a matter of time, his son would return from the dead.


	35. Many Happy Returns

**A/N Oh guys, look what's here! It's Many Happy Returns! Somebody is about to get back soon! And I can't f*cking believe this... it seems my story is getting about a 1,000 views per day! It's well over 8,000 right now! Hot damn! I hope you guys keep enjoying reading this as much as I enjoy writing this! I REALLY loved writing this bit! Especially the ending grins.**

 **Katt96 Yes, aloe vera, I was going to get you the eucalyptus ones first, but I love the aloe vera tissues! And um... no spoilers, sweetie! Just gonna have to read and see what happens! LOL, I already know! waggles eyebrows**

 **Guest I'm glad you are still with us. I completely understand your sentiments though. I did not like writing that first assault scene but it was necessary for the plot. But, dark stuff will happen and that's why I apologised earlier. At that time, I thought you meant the kind of assault as what happened to John in Empty Hearse. I'm really glad you liked the part with his parents. They will make an appearance again! And not just for their Empty Hearse scene! And I agree, Sherlock (in my story) takes a lot after his father (hence the title). He really is Sherlock's soft side.**

 **Dreamonalina Haha Here is a new update. I hope it makes you happy. And yes, I did that thing where I mention the title of the story in the story itself. I'm really glad you noticed and commented on it! I think the context is beautiful in a sad kind of way. But, it won't stay sad. I promise. Just for a bit. Sorry!**

 **Guest I'm so glad you found my story and decided to stick with it, even leave me a review! Yes, I follow the script a lot and I'm sure it can be pretty tedious to read the same bits over and over again (like I tend to do) just with a different OC squished in every time. I do try to add a lot of her own story as well and I'm really happy to read you like what I've done so far. I hope you will enjoy this update!**

SSS

Kyrie stayed with her in-laws for the better part of a year before they wanted to let her go, or before she even wanted to go. Her relationship with Mycroft improved over time, though there was still a part of her that blamed him for Sherlock's death.

He made good on his promise though and found her a position as PA for some media mogul who owned several newspapers. Charles Augustus Magnussen. Admittedly, he was a bit of creep and quite demanding, but the job was good and so was the money.

Whenever Magnussen had to go on a trip, Kyrie would travel there a day or two earlier to set up meetings, gave hotels instructions about his particular wishes, and she briefed Magnussen about the people he would meet.

During his stays, Magnussen demanded bath towels made of the finest pima cotton of at least 660GSM, though he preferred the even more luxurious 700GSM. His bed linen had to be of the highest quality Egyptian cotton with a satin weave.

Kyrie made sure to only reserve rooms in hotels that served Black Ivory Coffee. At night, before she left him to himself, she made sure Magnussen got a glass of the very expensive Rémy Martin cognac, Louis XIII.

Mycroft found her a new home in London, close to Magnussen's main office. Kyrie got along quite well with Janine Hawkins, Magnussen's Executive Secretary. All in all, now that she had removed herself from 221B Baker Street, she finally found a way to move forward.

Several times she had contemplated to contact Mrs Hudson and John. But, now so much time had past already, she wasn't sure if it was the best thing to do. Maybe one day...

SSS

"You really should wear more colour, Kyrie" Janine said to her with that lovely lilt in her voice. "I know, you prefer black, but that scarf really is lovely. It should have been silvery though, then it would have matched your eyes."

Kyrie smiled at Janine, a smile she knew would not reach her eyes. She didn't bother telling Janine that once, the scarf did match her eyes. Apparently, her eyes took on a violet hue whenever she was thrilled or happy. She had once claimed it was heterochromia but she knew that wasn't really it. Not entirely at least.

It finally explained why Sherlock had been so obsessed with her eye colour after Irene Adler. She felt a painful pang shoot through her heart. He hadn't liked it when she'd been unhappy, so in his own clumsy way... he'd tried to make her happy again.

"It was a gift," she replied softly.

"Your husband?" Janine asked.

Kyrie nodded "Yes. He was an... acquired taste for many but, he was an amazing man."

Janine tilted her head and looked at Kyrie thoughtfully. "He was that detective, wasn't he? The detective in the funny hat? Sorry, it's just that...your last name, it rang a bell and I looked it up. Why did you never tell me though?"

Kyrie sighed. "Because it still hurts, after all this time, the lies in the media. They destroyed someone who was..." she chuckled lightly. "He was brilliant, rude, short-tempered, childish, patronising..."

"Sounds like a catch," Janine smirked.

Kyrie laughed. "He was, and those were his _good_ qualities!"

They both laughed at that and took a sip from their drinks. Janine was having a beer while Kyrie stuck with grape juice. Though she'd never become an alcoholic, she'd come dangerously close during those first months after Sherlock's death.

"What attracted you to him in the first place?" Janine was curious to know.

Kyrie decided to leave out the forced marriage bit. "We met through his brother, Mycroft. Basically, he would take one look at me and I'd feel as if he really saw me... the good bits, the not so good bits and the absolutely horrendous bits. And he made me feel okay about all of it.

"And he was a handsome devil," Janine said with a wink.

Kyrie smiled. "Yes, that too."

Suddenly she heard a familiar, deep rumbling voice coming from behind her. She perked her ears. Was that...?

"A blonde woman hiding amongst bald monks? That wouldn't exactly take Sherlock Holmes!"

"Well, perhaps it did."

Kyrie furrowed her brows hearing that second voice. It sounded so familiar, but she couldn't quite place it.

"He's dead. I'm sorry, Anderson. I wish he wasn't but he really is dead and gone."

Kyrie felt the blood drain from her face. Anderson! That backstabbing little weasel! He was here, in this pub of all places, with Lestrade!

"Well, how do you explain this...?"

"Kyrie, are you okay? You're shivering. You look as if someone just walked over your grave."

"I think someone just walked over my husband's," Kyrie said quietly. "Janine, I'm sorry, I know these men behind me. Can we do this again some other time? I- I need to go."

"Sure, I will see you tomorrow. Drinks will be on you next time though!"

Kyrie quickly got up and smiled at Janine. She donned her large military style black cashmere coat and fluffed her scarf.

"See you tomorrow, Janine!"

Kyrie slowly walked over to the two men who were so submersed in their discussion that they did not immediately notice her standing there. Lestrade looked quite well with his smart shirt and jacket.

Her eyes drifted to Anderson. Wow, he looked nothing like the smug little bastard she remembered. He was wearing a bland oatmeal knitted jumper, his hair was longer than it used to be and looked quite greasy. He was even sporting a rather scruffy, unkempt looking beard.

"You remember how Sherlock never took the credit when he solved all of your cases?"

"He didn't solve all of my cases! And no, he never took credit, until John would post his damn blog making me look like an ass for taking credit!"

"He's out there. He's hiding. But he can't stop himself from getting involved," Anderson chuckled. "It's so obviously him, if you know how to spot the signs!"

"You've certainly changed your tune about my husband since we last met. I thought you would be glad that he was dead. Now it seems like you are wishing him alive?"

Both men jumped in their seat with a start.

"Good God, Kyrie!" Lestrade said. "You scared the hell out of me!" He looked at her, took in her appearance and his mouth dropped open in surprise.

"Mrs Holmes!" Anderson said breathlessly. "I-I-I'm so sorry, for back then. I never meant..."

"Spare me the meaningless platitudes, Anderson," Kyrie said in an icy tone. "I'm more interested in what you were saying about my husband."

"This sod here," Lestrade said, "Is a lost soul who lost a good job fantasising about your dead husband coming back to life. Look, Anderson, I know why you want that to happen. But it's never gonna."

Lestrade picked up his beer and downed what remained in the glass in one big gulp. "Kyrie, um... I was on my way... to see and old friend. Some stuff I want to give to him. Stuff from my office... Some stuff of Sherlock's, actually. I probably should have thrown it, but... you know. I thought he might want to have a look, but, maybe I should give it to you instead."

Kyrie shook her head. "No, you can give it to John." She didn't need to hear his name to guess who the 'old friend' was.

"I did make a copy of something, just in case he was still...in touch with you. Can I give you that at least?"

She thought for a moment, then nodded yes.

He stood up, rummaged through a white box that was sitting on a nearby stool and held something out to her. "Here, Kyrie, I hope... I hope this helps. And, for whatever this still means anything for you... you were right. I have regretted doing _that_... that evening, every single day. And I'm so sorry."

She took something what looked to be a copy of a DVD from his hands and nodded slightly. "It's okay... Greg. But thank you anyway." It was the first time she'd called him by his first name again after at least 20 months.

He smiled, gave her a quick hug and lightly placed a kiss on her cheek. "I hope you are well, Kyrie," he said sincerely when he pulled back. "I really do."

He then picked up his coat and looked across to Anderson with a look of sympathy on his face. "Now, you take care okay? I'll put a word in... see if they won't review your case." Greg nodded at the both of them and then left the pub.

Kyrie immediately took Greg's place and looked intently at Anderson. He had a nervous look about him, his eyes darted everywhere, but he avoided her eyes.

"Mrs Holmes," he tried his words from earlier again. "I know you don't want to hear this, not from me at least... But, I am _so_ sorry. Your husband... Sherlock, he _did_ have astonishing powers of observation and deduction, and he _was_ that clever. Moriarty played us for the fools that we are."

"Anderson," Kyrie said in a careful measured tone. "I'm willing to hear you out about what you have to say about Sherlock. Your apology is noted, that is the most I can give you right now. Because you knew him for much longer than I ever did, you should have known."

Anderson nodded quickly. He looked a bit disappointed, but a quick apology was not enough, not with all the pain she still felt. She shouldn't even listen to him. She had seen Sherlock fall to his death, his broken body, with her own eyes. Reason told her he couldn't be alive. But still... It would feel nice to share in the fantasy, however brief.

"What have you got, Anderson?" she asked. He looked into her eyes and didn't even seemed taken aback by them. He seemed more interested in her inclination to actually want to hear him out.

"Let me show you," he told her and he showed her a map. He pointed to several places on the map. "These are all places where I think Sherlock has been involved, I will tell you why in a moment... What is more important though..." He pointed from New Delhi to Hamburg, to Amsterdam and then Brussels. "He's getting closer."

"Why do you think it's him?" she asked curiously.

"Well..."

And Anderson told her about how in the Himalayas a blonde drug smuggler who was exposed by an abbot with the same powers of observation and deduction as Sherlock. About a case in New Delhi where a certain Inspector Prakesh had solved a murder by working out the depth to which a chocolate flake had sunk into the victim's ice-cream cone. It was highly unlikely that Inspector Prakesh could have worked that out by himself. Kyrie had to admit, that really did sound like a deduction Sherlock could make. The last case in Germany didn't sound so convincing. Kyrie smiled sadly. It had been nice for a while.

"Thank you, Anderson," she said softly. "It was nice, to think he's alive somewhere. But, you forget, I saw him fall to his death with my own to eyes." She turned around to leave.

"Did you, though?" Anderson asked her. Kyrie involuntary thought back to that brief single moment where that building had obstructed Sherlock's fall from her eyes.

"Yes," she finally said before she left the pub.

SSS

Kyrie unbuttoned her long black coat when she entered her flat and hung it on a coat rack near the door. It was soon joined by her scarf. She pulled off her black heels from her feet and smoothed down the fabric of her simple but well-fitting black pencil dress.

She loved it because it still stood out because of the boat neckline and the eye-catching short sleeves that were partly attached to the neckline and partly draped over her shoulders. Kyrie looked at the DVD cover in her hand. It was completely blank, so was the disc itself. Curiosity won over so she walked over to her TV set and put the disc in the DVD player.

She grabbed the remote from her teak wood coffee table. It was hand crafted from harvested teak root in Indonesia. It was sliced and formed into a square shape and carved with intricate designs by Javanese artisans.

She walked over to her kitchen and grabbed a portion of left over pasta from the previous day and put it in the microwave. Kyrie filled a tall glass with some grape juice and took it with her to the living room. She walked back and turned on her TV screen and settled herself on her sofa.

The screen turned blue for a second and suddenly she was confronted by the very familiar sight of the sofa they'd had in 221B Baker Street. The smiley face on the wall behind it, smiled at her as if she were an old friend. Kyrie gasped and put a hand to her throat. Whatever she'd been expecting. This wasn't it. And then she heard his voice, his painfully familiar voice. Kyrie closed her eyes.

"Was that supposed to happen?" she heard him ask. "The light going down? Yeah, okay."

When Kyrie opened her eyes, she saw Sherlock, on her TV screen, pacing across the living room in front of the sofa.

"Oh, err... Mmm. So, what do I... What do I... What do you want me to do at the end?" Sherlock stopped pacing and looked up at the person who was filming him.

"Shall I, um...? Smile and wink? I do that sometimes. I've no idea why. People seem to like it. I think Kyrie does, at least... humanises me." He turned away.

"Fine, whatever." Ah. So Lestrade had been filming this. But when?

Sherlock turned back around to face the camera. "Why am I doing this, again?"

"Because you're gonna miss the dinner."

"Of course I'm gonna miss dinner," Sherlock scoffed. "There'll be people." He moved as if he was turning away again, but then he turned back. "How can John be having a birthday dinner? All his friends hate him."

Kyrie smiled. Now she remembered when this was. Sherlock had excused himself from John's birthday dinner with some vague excuse.

"I don't think Kyrie hates him."

"Kyrie hates no one," Sherlock muttered. "It's like she's mentally not capable of hate. Case in point... She actually likes my brother Mycroft!" He shuddered at the thought. "His other friends then, _they_ hate him. You only have to look at their faces. I wrote an essay on suppressed hatred in close proximity based entirely on his friends."

Kyrie giggled at the comment. He could be so adorably oblivious at times... used to be... She watched as Sherlock looked away as if in thought. "On reflection, it probably wasn't a very good choice of gift."

He blinked a few times before he straightened his back and looked back into the camera for a bit, before looking past it at Greg.

"What was my excuse again?"

"You said you had _thing_ ," Lestrade remarked dryly.

"Ah, right, yes! That's right. A thing."

"You might want to elaborate."

"No. No, no. Only lies have detail," Sherlock disagreed.

Kyrie put her other hand in front of her mouth, she then quickly moved her hands to her cheeks. It felt so good to see him... even if it was just on TV. God, she missed seeing his face, hearing his voice!

"Right, I just..." Sherlock started. "I need a moment to, um, figure out what I'm going to do." Sherlock walked towards the window and Kyrie took a sip from her juice.

"I can think of something you can do. You can stop being bloody dead..." Kyrie muttered.

Sherlock walked back to stand in front of the camera again, looked straight into it. "Okay." Sherlock sat down in his armchair and settled into it, then looked up into the camera.

"Hello John," Sherlock said with a smile. It was one of his fake ones. "I'm sorry I'm not there at the moment. I'm very busy." Wow, even his recorded message sounded fake. Suddenly something flashed in his eyes. "Kyrie is with you right now anyway, so... Hopefully one Holmes is better than none," he said with a tight smile. "She's definitely the better one. Anyway, many happy returns, John."

Kyrie wiped at her eyes.

"Oh, and don't worry. I'm going to be with you again very soon." He then looked into the camera with quite an intense look in his eyes before he smiled widely and winked.

Kyrie smiled and turned off the TV. "Where are you then?" she whispered.

"Right here, of course."

She sighed. "Why are _you_ here? I haven't seen you in a long time."

"Not since you left Baker Street."

She looked up at Sherlock, who was sitting in her armchair looking for all the world as if he owned the place.

Kyrie looked away. She couldn't use this. She was just getting her life back on track again. Conversing with her dead husband was not helping. But, she couldn't resist.

"Was it true? What your father said. Did you really have... feelings for me?" she asked him.

"I'm part of you subconscious, Kyrie. Of course I'm going to say I loved you. It's what you _want_ to hear."

"I just want to hear you say it," she whispered. "Just once. Even if it isn't true, even if it's just wishful thinking. One time, that's all I ask," she pleaded.

Sherlock raised himself from her armchair and went to kneel in front of her. He leaned in and Kyrie closed her eyes. For a moment she could actually feel his warm breath tickling against the sensitive skin right underneath her ear. "I love you," he whispered. And then he was gone.


	36. The Way Back Home

**A/N Look who's on his way home! -gasps- Not gonna say anything else. Just that I loved writing the banter between the Holmes boys, and Sherlock, again, not being able to get a name right.**

 **Katt96 Glad to know you love me being evil. Because I love to be evil. Oh... just you wait till you see what I've got in store for you in just a few more chapters! Mwuahaha!**

 **Guest Lol the fact that she was already seeing him near his grave and at home... should have been a big old clue! I loved writing that bit. It was the only way to make him say 'I love you' this soon in their story. I'm glad you still love reading this.**

 **DreamonAlina Here you go. I hope you enjoy this new chapter. And yes, Kyrie and Janine have become good friends. All a set up for the plot that's still to come. For now, happy reading!**

SSS

Kyrie was standing next to Greg Lestrade and Philip Anderson at a mobile coffee stall. Sherlock was finally about to get vindicated, after two long years. Reporters had assembled in front of the court house. And Anderson had just regaled them with one of his newest theories.

"Bollocks!" Greg cried out. Kyrie said nothing, she just smiled a bit. It was clever, well-thought out... but too out there, too... all over the place. She glanced at Anderson who had a slightly deranged smile on his face. His hair looked even greasier than last time she saw him.

"No, no, no, no! It's obvious! That's how he did it! It's obvious!"

"Derren Brown? Let it go. Sherlock's dead."

Kyrie cringed at Greg's harsh words.

"Is he?"

"There was a body. His wife, Kyrie, standing right here with us, saw him herself..."

"No, it was a fake body. She was – understandably – upset and saw what she expected to see. But his body was wheeled away very quickly and –"

"It was him," Greg cut him off. "It was definitely him. Molly Hooper laid him out."

Kyrie closed her eyes. She did not want to see mental images of Molly Hooper doing a post-mortem on her husband's body.

"No, she's lying. It was Jim Moriarty's body with a mask on!"

"A mask?!"

Anderson nodded, smiling eagerly.

"So, I'm to think that, Sherlock jumped from the roof on a bungee rope, then smashed through the window, snogged Molly Hooper, hired Derren Brown and put a mask on Moriarty's face. Why? Why on Earth would he do all that?"

"Well, I'm not saying he _did_ snog Molly, just that he could have," Anderson muttered. He quickly looked away from her.

"And then he went away, for two years now, leaving me here to think he's dead?" Kyrie asked softly. "I like hearing the fantasies, Philip, I do. But you are taking things a bit too far."

"Two years," Greg muttered. "And the theories keep getting more stupid. How many more have you got for me today?"

"Well, you know the paving slabs in that whole area, even the exact ones that he landed on...You know they were all …"

"Guilt," Lestrade said. "That's all this is. You pushed us all into thinking that Sherlock was a fraud. You and Donovan. I'm not proud of what I did that night... having him taken in... cuffed like a common criminal." Greg then turned to look at Kyrie. "You have no idea how often your words that evening came back to haunt me... still do."

"I could say I feel sorry for you, but, to be honest... I'd be lying," Kyrie said with a wry smile.

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, thought as much. I deserve it though. I should have listened to you and John. Not this... bloody idiot."

He turned back at Philip again. "Sorry mate, but _you_ did this, and it killed him, and he's staying dead. Do you honestly believe that if you have enough stupid theories, it's gonna change what really happened?" Greg grabbed his coffee. "Coming, Kyrie?"

She nodded and followed Greg to where the reporters were standing.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes,"

"He's not Tinkerbell, Philip," Kyrie called back, "That's not going to bring him back."

Kyrie and Greg grabbed their tea and coffee with them and walked on towards were several camera crews were filming reporters. They stayed back and Kyrie watched how the reporters, finally told the truth. Even though it was too late, it felt good to know that as least now Sherlock's name was no longer tarnished.

She heard snippets of what the reporters were saying into their crew's camera's.

"... that after extensive police investigations, Richard Brook did indeed prove to be the creation of James Moriarty..."

"... amidst unprecedented scenes, there was uproar in court as Sherlock Holmes was vindicated and cleared of all suspicion..."

Kyrie smiled hearing those words. "Finally," she whispered to herself.

"... but sadly, all this comes too late for the detective who became something of a celebrity two years ago..."

It didn't take long for Philip to join them as well. He had a pained expression on his face, hearing all around him, over and over again, how wrong he'd been all this time.

"... Questions are now being asked as to why police let matters get so far..."

"... Journalist Kitty Riley left 'The Sun' after her scandalous exposé drove Sherlock Holmes to suicide. The Sun cited no reason for Riley's exit..."

"I told her she'd get her due. Good to see I wasn't lying," Kyrie muttered darkly. Greg grimaced at her words, Philip just looked away in shame. Though they were on speaking terms now, Kyrie had not entirely forgiven his part in Sherlock's suicide and Philip sensed it.

"Sherlock Holmes fell to his death from the top of London's Bart's Hospital. Although he left no note, friends say it's unlikely he was able to cope with..."

Greg turned around to face Anderson and Kyrie and raised his coffee cup "Well then. Absent friends. Sherlock," he said solemnly.

Kyrie and Anderson both raised their own cups. "Sherlock," they both said in unison and the three of them tapped their cups together.

"And may God rest his soul." They drank their coffee and Kyrie drank her tea, before she threw away the paper cup in a trash can nearby. "

"Okay, I'm off. I have a 'date'. I expect some better theories next time, Anderson," she warned him.

Greg and Philip smiled sadly at her. It wasn't hard to figure out what they were thinking. They knew exactly where she was going. After all, it was the second anniversary of Sherlock's death.

SSS

Kyrie was standing at Sherlock's grave. It still looked the same, except maybe for the bird poop splattered over it and the faded flowers nears its base, and she still hated it for what it represented.

She'd been standing here for a while. There was someone she hadn't seen in a long, long time and she'd kind of hoped that she would find him here. Unfortunately, she was standing here all by herself. Kyrie shivered. The coat that Sherlock had given to her had been so much warmer.

She hadn't been able to get herself to wear it again. She'd hung it next to one of Sherlock's spare coats. At least that way, some of their belongings would always be together, even though they themselves had been separated by death.

"Oh. My. God..."

She suddenly heard someone say behind her. Kyrie looked up, hearing that painfully familiar voice. She closed her eyes.

"Kyrie?! I-Is that really you?"

She turned around to face John. She instantly noticed several things. One, he had grown a moustache. Two, she didn't like it. Three, he had found himself a new girlfriend and this time, it seemed that John had taken her advise. Four... She had missed him, so... so much!

She ran towards him and flung herself in his arms. He picked her up with a smile and twirled her around. "Aaaah!" he groaned. "Let me look at you," he pulled back slightly and immediately the smile dropped from his face. "Oh," was all he managed to say.

Kyrie smiled sadly at him. Yeah... She knew. She'd changed a lot. Even she could no longer deny that her eye colour was much paler than what it used to be and they looked tired. Her skin was paler as well, her cheeks more gaunt and she'd lost quite a bit of weight and not in an attractive way.

"New girlfriend?" Kyrie asked, pointing it Mary, trying to change the subject. She looked at the woman. Older then she was, closer to John's age actually. She was was wearing a smart grey coat, blue scarf and a ridiculous black knitted hat, but it really suited her.

"Hi, I'm Mary Morstan," the woman said with a smile and offered Kyrie her hand.

Kyrie grasped it and smiled back. "So, nice to meet you, I'm Kyrie... Holmes," she said. It was still hard to call herself Holmes now Sherlock was gone. It felt, incomplete, somehow.

"I've heard a lot about you, and your husband," Mary said. "So sorry about that, by the way."

Kyrie nodded sadly. "Yeah, so am I. But, this is great though," she said as she gestured at them. "So, are you guys busy or... fancy having lunch together?" she asked hopefully.

"We'd love to have lunch with you!" Mary said with a wide smile without even looking at John. Kyrie smiled back at her. She had a feeling she and Mary would get along great.

SSS

SERBIA. NIGHT TIME. A man with long straggly hair was chained by his arms to the walls of a small interrogation room. His body was slumped forward because he had no strength left in his legs to support the weight of his body.

The man looked absolutely exhausted. He was naked from the waist up and, judging from the myriad of cuts and bruises that were visible, not to mention the bruises that were still forming... he was in a lot of pain.

In a dark corner of the interrogation room, a soldier was comfortably seated on his chair, his feet propped up on a small table. He was well protected against the cold with a thick coat and a furry hat on his head. The soldier looked over his right shoulder. His colleague had just stormed away to follow up on the information that the prisoner had just given up. Apparently, if the man hurried home, he would catch his wife in the act of doing the dirty with the local coffin maker.

The soldier looked back at his prisoner, still slumped in his chains, who hadn't uttered another word after his torturer had run off.

"So, my friend," the soldier told his prisoner in Serbian. "Now it's just you and me."

The soldier took his feet off the table and raised himself from his seat. "You have no idea the trouble it took to find you," he told the man, still in Serbian. The soldier approached the prisoner and inspected his back that was covered in caked blood and dirt and he looked at every bruise and wound that was inflicted to his body.

The soldier grabbed the prisoner's long straggly hair and forced his head up a little. He leaned in close, close enough to whisper in the man's ear and suddenly he softly whispered in perfect English, "Now listen to me. There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear."

Mycroft released his brother's head and straightened up. "Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."

He could see his brother smiling in anticipation, even though his face was mostly hidden behind that curtain of long unkempt hair.

SSS

Kyrie and John were standing in front of the door to their old flat, 221B. For a moment they just stood standing there, each lost with their own thoughts and memories.

"Have you been in touch with Mrs Hudson?" Kyrie suddenly asked.

"Mm?" John asked a bit absent-minded. "Oh, um, no. I haven't. I meant to though. It's just... stuff happened and time past and at some point it felt..."

"... too late?" Kyrie offered.

"Yes, actually," John told her with a sad smile. "Shall we?"

Kyrie nodded and watched how John unlocked the front door and let her go inside first. Partway down the hall, they both stopped and stared at Mrs. Hudson's front door. They sent each other a meaningful look and they let out an anxious breath at the same time.

They took a tentative step forward, when Mrs Hudson suddenly opened her door and came out. She blinked at the two of them in shocked surprise. Kyrie smiled meekly and raised her hand in greeting. Kyrie quickly glanced up at the stairs, leading to her previous home, before she approached her former landlady and gave her a hug.

SSS

Mycroft was seated behind his desk in his office. He cast a casual glance in the direction of his younger brother who looked much better now his hair had been cut to its usual length.

It was... good to have him back safely. His brother was currently reading a newspaper. 'SKELETON MYSTERY' it said on the front page headline. 'Remains found in the wall of a...' Boring. The skeleton was obviously planted there. Mycroft rolled his eyes. He was tired of being ignored.

"You have been busy, haven't you?" he drawled.

Sherlock couldn't move his head much. He was reclined flat on his back in a barber's chair while a barber was shaving his face with a straight razor. He tossed the paper onto a nearby trolley.

"Quite the busy little bee," Mycroft chuckled. It was petty, to sound so disdainful, he knew... it was easier than to admit he was impressed with what his little brother had managed to do in two years time, all by himself.

"Moriarty's network... Took me two years to dismantle it," Sherlock told him.

"And you're confident you have?"

"The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle."

"Yes," Mycroft said as he pulled a report towards him. "You got yourself in deep there... with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme."

"Colossal," Sherlock agreed.

"Anyway, you're safe now," Mycroft said with a satisfied smile.

"Hmm," was the only answer he got.

Mycroft scowled. How was that for gratitude? "A small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss," he lightly admonished his brother.

"What for?" Sherlock asked him in an annoyed tone.

"For wading in."

Sherlock raised his hand to the barber, signalling him to stop for a moment. The man stepped away a bit, creating some distance.

Mycroft sensed that his brother was about to disagree with him. "In case you'd forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural _milieu_."

Sherlock struggled his battered body upwards, groaning in pain as he did so. He glared at his brother.

"Wading in? You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp!"

Mycroft frowned at him, he did not like what Sherlock was implicating. "I got you out."

"No, _I_ got me out," Sherlock countered. "Why didn't you intervene sooner?"

"Well, I couldn't risk giving myself away, could I?" he huffed. "It would have ruined everything."

Sherlock glowered at him. "You were enjoying it!" he said in an accusatory tone.

Mycroft waved his comment away, "Nonsense."

"Definitely enjoying it," Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft leaned forward. "Listen, do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock? Going _undercover_ , smuggling my way into their ranks like that?" He grimaced at the memory. "The noise, the people." He shuddered at the thought and leaned back again.

Sherlock slowly eased his body back again, grunting a bit at the effort, and allowed the barber to resume his works.

"Yes, you were a right paragon of virtue... I didn't know you spoke Serbian," he suddenly said.

"I didn't," Mycroft admitted, "But the language has a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loan words." He shrugged his shoulders. "Took me a couple of hours."

"Hmm. You're slipping," Sherlock said, mocking him.

"Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all," Mycroft replied with a tight smile.

The door opened and Mycroft's personal assistant entered. The woman who's real name was one of the best guarded secrets in England, Mycroft thought with a wry smile.

"Ah, Greta," Sherlock greeted her. "Still going with Greta?"

"I've never gone with Greta," she replied, while holding up a dark suit and white shirt on a hanger.

"That will do splendidly... Amanda," Sherlock said.

"Nope," she said with a smile.

SSS

John and Kyrie were sitting at Mrs Hudson's kitchen table. Kyrie had a sneaking suspicion that their former landlady was far from pleased with them. Maybe it was the way she firmly slammed down a small tray, containing two cups and saucers and a jug of milk.

She practically stomped across the room to pick up a plate of stale looking biscuits and slammed it down with such force that the biscuits were jostled up a bit. Kyrie sent John a brief look.

Mrs Hudson was sweet as a lamb, but if you caught her on the wrong end of her temper... Mrs Hudson lobbed a sugar bowl onto the table. She looked at it with a pensive look on her face.

"Oh no, you don't take it, do you?" she asked.

"No," John said meekly.

"I do," Kyrie muttered, looking anywhere but at Mrs Hudson.

"You forget a little thing like that," she continued.

"Yes," John and Kyrie agreed at the same time.

"You forget lots of little things, it seems," Mrs Hudson said pointedly.

Kyrie said nothing. John was brave enough to venture with an 'Uh-huh' and an apologetic smile.

Mrs Hudson brushed her finger between her nose and upper lip while looking at John. "Not sure about that," she said with a meaningful look. "It ages you."

"Just trying it out."

"Well, it ages you," she insisted.

Kyrie gulped and took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry-"

"I'm not your mother. I've no right to expect it..." Mrs Hudson blurted out, starting to sound a bit upset. "But just one phone call, Kyrie... John." Her anger suddenly seemed to dissipate and she looked so sad. "Just one phone call would have done," she said with a trembling voice.

"I know," John said, looking properly ashamed.

"After all we went through..." Mrs Hudson continued.

"We do know, Mrs Hudson and we are very sorry. We just recently met up. John and I haven't talked either since... you know."

"You haven't?" Mrs Hudson asked in shock. "But why on Earth not? You should have stuck together. Look, I understand how difficult it was for you, both of you, after..." she stopped talking and shook her had sadly.

"I just let it slide, Mrs Hudson," John explained. "I guess we both did, let it all slide. And it just got harder and harder to pick up the phone somehow. We did agree to meet up again at some point. It just took us this long to get to that point. Do you know what I mean?"

Mrs Hudson looked at them, a look of infinite sadness in her eyes, but then she sighed and reached out to grasp their hands. With a rueful smile, Kyrie and John returned the gesture.

SSS

Mycroft watched as his brother groomed himself in front of Mycroft's full size mirror on the wall.

"So, what do I call you this time then?" Sherlock asked, looking at the woman standing behind him through the reflection of the mirror. The woman paused for a moment, then smiled. "Anthea," she then said.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder to look at her directly with squinted eyes. Mycroft smiled bemused. His brother turned around again and tucked his shirt into his trousers, looking more and more like his old self.

"I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?" Mycroft warned his brother.

"What do you think of this shirt?" Sherlock asked him instead, doing the exact opposite of giving the matter his attention.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft cried out.

"Don't worry, I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft," Sherlock responded. "Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in... Feel every quiver of its beating heart."

"One of our men died getting this information," Anthea said in a tone that seemed to ask for a bit of respect. "All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there's going to be a terror strike on London... A big one."

Sherlock all but ignored her remark and went to put on his jacket. Mycroft smiled wryly. He really thought she'd know Sherlock better by now.

"And what about Kyrie and John Watson?"

Anthea shot an annoyed glance at Mycroft.

"Kyrie and John?"

"Mm. Have you seen them?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft looked at him intently and then smiled a little. The restlessness in his eyes betrayed him.

"Oh yes," Mycroft drawled. "We meet up every Friday for fish and chips." He gestured at Anthea who immediately handed Sherlock a folder. "I've kept a weather eye on them, of course. John as a courtesy, Kyrie because... I promised."

Sherlock immediately opened the file and quickly glanced at several black and white surveillance photos and the printed report underneath.

"You haven't been in touch at all, to prepare them?" Mycroft asked him.

"No," he replied distractedly and he scrunched up his nose looking at John's new 'style'. "Well, we'll have to get rid of that."

"We?"

"He looks ancient. I can't be seen to be wandering around with an old man. Haven't you been in touch with Kyrie? Thought you would want to... prepare her?"

"Me?"Mycroft scoffed. "I was just back in her good graces again, I wasn't going to spoil that by telling her I've been lying to her for the past two years. She'd hate me all over again!"

"Kyrie? Hate?" Sherlock chuckled. "Kyrie doesn't _hate_! She's not even capable of that emotion!"

"You'd be surprised, brother mine. That woman can carry a grudge longer than it takes _you_ to get in touch with your _feelings,"_ Mycroft smiled at his brother's glare. "She did forgive me, but she never forgot..."

Mycroft looked intently when Sherlock pulled out the photograph of Kyrie and studied her harsh, sculpted features. Even with the softening effect of the dimmed lights in the office, she looked supremely aloof. "This isn't her," Sherlock said softly. He closed the file and dropped it onto the desk.


	37. Proposal Interrupted

**A/N I usually don't do 2 chapters in a day (you guys are already slowly gaining on me) BUT the next chapter is a bit too much shorter, so I thought it would be nice to post them together. Also, I wanted to celebrate the fact that my story has been viewed well over 1k times!**

 **And... sorry... but Sherlock and Kyrie will not be reuniting just yet. Hopefully you will still like these 2 chapters.**

 **Deschperado Good to see you back. Glad you liked the chapter :)**

 **DreamonAlina Rejoice... HE HAS RETURNED, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. THE EAGLE HAS LANDED!**

 **Artemis7448 Thank you for your suggestion. I wasn't aware of that! But, I like your suggestion so I edited the chapter. ;-)**

 **EllemichelleP Yes, she CAN carry a grudge. So far, Sherlock has ever only really encounter her sweet side. Sure, she was very guarded during that Irene Adler business, but that was more self-defence than carrying a grudge. Mycroft, Anderson and Lestrade were basically the ones who had to carry the brunt of her grudge.**

 **Guest Thank you for your kind comment. Wow, I have a fan! -grins- I'm really glad that you like the way I portray Sherlock. It is damn hard to capture even a smidgen of his essence, I can tell you that! Hope you like this sneaky 2nd chapter in a day!**

 **SSS**

Kyrie and John had gone upstairs and John had just opened the door to the living room. They were standing in the doorway, looking into the room. The curtains were drawn, shrouding the room in dark shadows. There were a few streaks of light falling into the room and dust particles danced within them, floating and sparkling. Kyrie's eyes were immediately drawn to Sherlock's chair by the fireside, a small layer of dust had gathered on it. How many times had she not seen him, sitting there with his legs crossed and his fingers steepled underneath his chin?

John wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder and she quickly wiped away a tear that threatened to fall. Mrs Hudson came in behind them and switched on the lights.

"I couldn't face letting it out," she explained while walking across to the window on the right side. She pulled the windows back and instantly coughed at the dust flying up but the disturbance.

"He never liked me dusting," Mrs Hudson excused the state of the flat.

"I know," Kyrie said with a sad smile, remembering his fit of anger that one time she had made the mistake of cleaning up. They hadn't known each other for very long back then and Kyrie had still been quite nervous around him.

"So, why now? What changed your mind?" Mrs Hudson asked while she pulled open the other set of curtains.

"He has news he wants to share," Kyrie said with smile, giving John a playful nudge with her elbow.

Mrs Hudson turned around, her face filled with horror. Okay, so she clearly misinterpreted Kyrie's words. "Oh, God. Is it serious?" she asked, all nerves.

"What? No, no, I'm not ill. I've, er, well... I'm... moving on."

The look of horror didn't go away. "You're emigrating."

Kyrie giggled at the extreme leaps the elderly lady was making.

"Nope. Um, no... I've met someone."

"Oooh!" Mrs Hudson giggled with joyous delight. She clapped her hands excitedly and walked up towards him, all smiling and happy. "Oh, lovely!"

John smiled too. "Yeah. We're getting married... well, I'm gonna ask, anyway."

"Someone's confident she'll say yes," Kyrie teased him. John's smile faded and he paled a bit. "And so you should be, you are wonderful, John. She _will_ say yes."

Mrs Hudson giggled. "You know, before you came along, Kyrie... I always thought that Sherlock and John were... you know... an _item_."

Kyrie looked at the woman completely dumbstruck. "Really? Mrs Hudson?"

"I'm so grateful for that day you suddenly turned up, Kyrie," John said dryly. "This woman really did get it in her head somehow that Sherlock was my boyfriend. And she wasn't the only one. Angelo from the restaurant... And remember Gary and Billy? From Dartmoor? First conclusion when I walk in with you and him? That Sherlock and me were together instead of the two of you."

They both smiled at the memory and looked at each other, lips twitching... "Gay vibes!" they cried out in unison, and started to laugh.

SSS

Sherlock put the finishing touches on his appearance. His curls were still slightly damp, but other than that he looked like his usual self again. Perhaps a bit older, a few more lines here and there. He straightened his jacket.

Mycroft saw his brother pause and stare at his left hand. It was bare, as it had been for the past two years. The wedding ring had been returned to Kyrie because it was a personal belonging of her 'deceased' husband.

He drew in a breath and bit his lip. Looking at Sherlock, he saw a man who was... very out of touch with humanity and human society. The rougher edges of his character, the ones that had previously been smoothed out by his association with Kyrie and John... they were back, like old friends you just couldn't get rid off.

"I think I'll surprise them. They'll be delighted!" Sherlock said in full confidence that Kyrie and John would be nothing but happy to see him again. _Case in point_ , Mycroft thought to himself.

"You think so?" Mycroft asked, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips.

"Hmm. I'll pop into Baker Street. Who knows... Jump out of a cake," he said with a big smile and a wide gesture of his hands.

Mycroft furrowed his brows. Surely Sherlock didn't really think they'd still be living there? "Baker Street? Sherlock, they aren't there any more."

Sherlock actually looked surprised at the revelation.

"Why would they be?" Mycroft tried to explain his younger brother who seemed to have completely lost every grasp of human emotion. "It's been two years. They had their lives to live, they went on."

"What lives?" Sherlock asked presumptuous, "I've been away."

Mycroft looked away, suppressing the childish urge to roll his eyes.

"Where are they going to be tonight?" Sherlock asked.

"How would I know?"

"You always know," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"Fine, John has a dinner reservation in the Marleybone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion... though I prefer the 2001.

"And Kyrie?"

"Home, alone. As usual," Mycroft said. Sherlock turned around and squinted his eyes at him. Mycroft merely shrugged his shoulders.

"I think maybe I'll just drop by."

"You know, it is just possible that you won't be welcome."

"No, it isn't," Sherlock said and he scrunched up his nose as if the very thought was inconceivable. "Now, where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"You know what," Sherlock said, looking at him with an intense look in his eyes.

The ticking sound of high heels connecting with the floor made them both look up. Anthea entered the room, carrying Sherlock's Belstaff coat. Sherlock smiled with relish and looked as if he was about to purr when he slid his arms into the sleeves. Anthea lifted the coat into position, making sure the collar popped up the moment the coat settled around his shoulders.

"Welcome back, Mr Holmes," Anthea said with a smile.

Sherlock pulled at the tips of the collar to make them stand out even further. "Thank you..." He turned to face his brother. " _Blood_."

With those words Sherlock turned around and left.

SSS

The very first thing Sherlock wanted to do, was to get himself reacquainted with the city. Therefore, he found himself the perfect rooftop to stand on, to look over his beloved city.

Looking ahead of him, feeling the wind blow softly through his now short curls again, the loneliness of the last two years seemed to fade away into a distant memory. Two years of exile, he had endured the hardship to keep his friend and.. _her_... safe.

It was a strange thought, yet exhilarating... the knowledge he would soon see them again. They would be thrilled of course. They had been so sad... Of course they would be ecstatic to find out he wasn't dead!

It had been really difficult to maintain that sprawled position on the pavement, that brief moment he'd laid there so Kyrie and John could make an absolutely positive ID. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, to just lie there without flinching as he could see and hear their pain and anguish.

And that day, on his 'funeral'... The way Kyrie had sung for him. He'd heard her sing several times before of course, but never so hauntingly beautiful as that day. Until she suddenly stopped singing and the music finished the song without her. She had looked so lost and alone and... broken... as if something inside her just... stopped working.

It had been the strangest sensation. He had been alone for most of his life, because he'd always preferred it that way and also because he never seemed to connect with other people in any meaningful way. Until John had entered his life and then Kyrie too. He never would have imagined that his passing could instil so much raw sorrow and emotion in someone.

His lips twitched into a smile. Well, the long wait was over. Now it was time to reunite himself with John and Kyrie.

SSS

Sherlock entered 222 Marleybone Road, The Landmark hotel. He was immediately relieved of his Bellstaff coat. Sherlock glanced around, feeling pretty suave this wonderful evening.

Two waiters opened the door to the restaurant for him. The moment he entered, Sherlock was instantly aware of everything going on around him. He curved his lips in a small smile. The maître d' stepped forward with a pleasant smile. "Sir, may I help you?"

Sherlock glanced at him briefly. Oh, this was entirely too easy. He didn't even have to try. The details seemed to jump just right at him. Even through the noise in the restaurant, Sherlock heard the maître d's phone beep because of a text alert. "Your wife just texted you. Possibly her contractions have started," Sherlock told the man.

The man quickly took his phone from his pocket, checked the screen and went off on a run. Sherlock smiled to himself. _Yup, still got it_. Sherlock walked on and scanned the room. And that's when he saw him. John. It was weird, seeing him sitting there, after not having seen him for two years. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, not entirely sure how to proceed.

Suddenly a waitress walked across, right in front of him. "'Scuse me, sir," she excused herself quickly as she walked away. Sherlock's eyes followed her as she went, lingering on the black bowtie she was wearing as part of her uniform.

An idea suddenly sparked in his mind and his brain feverishly set to work. Time to improvise! First... bowtie. He smiled noticing a couple sitting nearby. His reflection in the glass of water on the table showed that the man was wearing a bowtie. He also noticed the man was old enough to be his date's father. Sherlock glided over towards the couple, quickly snatched the glass of water from the table and instantly emptied it's contents down the man's front. The man jumped from his seat and cried out at him. Sherlock quickly offered his apologies for his clumsiness. "Sorry! I'm so, so sorry!" he kept excusing himself.

The man glared at him and picked up the napkin from his lap to dab himself. Sherlock lightly stepped behind him, pulling the napkin up a bit higher. "Please, let me just go to the kitchen and, er, dry that off for you," Sherlock said while smoothly tugging off the man's bowtie. He walked away and tied it around his own neck. He made his way towards John, improvising along the way.

He quickly nicked a pair of glasses some other guy placed on the menu, along with the menu, while uttering, "Finished with that, sir? Allow me to take it for you." As he walked away he pulled a face while putting on the glasses.

He spotted an eyeliner pencil sitting in an open handbag, belonging to the woman who was seated at the table in front of him. He sidled up to close behind her, offering his menu while taking the one she was holding. "Madam, can I suggest you look at this menu? It's, er, completely identical."

The moment she took the menu from him, he instantly pinched the eye liner from her bag and stepped back again. He quickly drew a moustache on his top lip and made a face, while moving in on his target. John.

John was completely engrossed reading the wine list. He looked utterly confused. Sherlock tried to keep a straight face. This was a stroke of genius! He could hardly wait for the moment that John would recognise him.

"Can I 'elp you with anything, sir?" He asked John with an overly exaggerated French accent.

John didn't really bother to look at him. "Hi, yeah. I'm looking for a bottle of champagne, a good one."

Sherlock smirked while leaning in closer. "Mmm! Well, these are all excellent vintages."

John groaned a bit. "Er, it's not really my area. What do you suggest?"

Since John refused to look up at him, Sherlock exaggerated his accent even more. "Well, you cannot possibly go wrong, but, erm, if you'd like my personal recommendation..."

"Mm-hm," John mumbled.

Sherlock pointed at the list with his eye liner pencil. "... this last one on the list is a favourite of mine."

John didn't even seem to notice his waiter was pointing at the wine list with an eye liner. Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes. As always... John did not observe!

John nodded, but still didn't look up. Sherlock decided to give him a subtle little hint. He straightened up a bit. "It is, you might in fact say, like a _face_ from ze past," Sherlock said, pulling off the glasses. He blinked his eyes a few times and looked at John, expecting him to recognise him any moment now.

"Great, I'll have that one, please," John said, quickly gulping down the remains of his red wine. Sherlock blinked at him in surprise. He knew John was thick, but, come one! How much more obvious did he have to be?

He made another attempt. "It is familiar, but, er, with the quality of _surprise_!" He flourished his hands in a grand gesture. John just pulled a face at the taste of the wine and thrust he wine list into Sherlock's hands. "Well, err, surprise me."

Sherlock glowered at him. "Certainly endeavouring to, sir," he said a bit peeved while dropping the accent. When John still didn't look up, he sulkily walked away. What the hell was wrong with John? He should have recognised him right away! Okay, time to up his game then. He bluffed his way into obtaining a fine bottle of champagne for his 'customer'.

Sherlock glided back over to the table, practically shoving the bottle of champagne under John's nose in an attempt to make him look up. "Sir, I think you'll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking," he told John while trying to ignore the woman sitting across from his friend, who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. "It 'as all the qualities of the old, with some of the colour of the new," he rambled on.

John threw his date a look of bemused exasperation. "No, sorry, not now, please."

"Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers," Sherlock told, his speech picking up speed like only he could do, in an attempt to make John look up at him. "... suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend." Sherlock took of his glasses again and again he looked at John expectantly with a wide smile on his face.

"No, look, seriously..." John finally lifted his gaze to meet Sherlock's eyes, "Could you just -" John abruptly stopped talking. His smile fell. His entire body jolted with shock as John stared up at him, an expression of utter disbelief written on his face.

"Interesting thing, a tuxedo," Sherlock started with a smile. "Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters."

John looked away from him to look at his lady friend. Sherlock's smile faltered a bit when he saw a flash of pain cross John's features. John briefly ducked his head. He breathed loudly through his nose before he pushed himself away from the table. He clumsily staggered to his feet.

"John?" his date asked, worry evident in her voice.

But John didn't say a word. He breathed heavily again and a muscle in his cheek started twitching a bit. Their eyes locked. Sherlock started to feel a bit uncomfortable. Things weren't exactly going as planned. Why wasn't John thrilled to see him?

"John, what is it? What?" John's date asked again. John looked away again, unable to maintain the eye contact and too shocked to say anything.

"Well, short version," Sherlock started, hesitating a bit. John raised his eyes to him again and they looked quite watery. "...Not dead."

John just kept staring at him, pain etched in his face, shock and growing anger flashing in his eyes, the muscles in his face twitching slightly. Sherlock swallowed hard. Seeing the pained expression on his friend's face, Sherlock realised he probably could have handled this a bit better. After two years apart, Sherlock had been excited to see his friend again, expecting John and Kyrie to feel the same. But they had spent the last two years thinking he was dead...

"Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know," Sherlock started explaining and in his nerves he just flooded the words from his mouth. "Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But, in my defence... It was very funny." He laughed a bit nervously, not quite able to meet his friend's eyes.

John still silently glared at him.

"Okay, it's not a great defence," Sherlock admitted.

"Oh no!" You're..." John's date cried out in sudden realisation.

Sherlock glanced at her. She looked nice. Her hair was too short and too flat and she wore way too much eye liner, but she looked nice. "Oh yes," Sherlock asked her unanswered question.

"Oh, my God!" she said in total shock.

"Not quite," he remarked dryly.

"You died," she said, "You jumped off a roof."

"No."

"You're dead!" she cried out.

"No. I'm quite sure. I checked. Excuse me." Sherlock picked up a napkin from the table and without asking dipped it into the glass of water that stood in front of John's date. He vigorously started to rub at the fake moustache. "Does, er, does yours rub off, too?" he asked John, trying to lighten the mood and act nonchalant.

John's nostrils flared as he grimaced at him, his lips pulled in tight smile.

"Oh, my God!" John's date gasped. "Oh, my God! Do you have any idea what you've done to him?"

This was not good, now John's date was getting angry as well. Though Sherlock did not understand the variety and depth of emotion he saw displayed, he did understand he had made a big mistake. "Okay, John," Sherlock said, realising he likely had to make up for some stuff. "I'm suddenly realising I probably owe you some sort of an apology."

John swiftly clenched his hand to a fist and violently slammed it down on the table. John's entire body was shaking as he hunched over his fist.

"All right, just... John? Just keep..." John's date said to him, trying to get him to calm down.

John drew in a steadying breath before he glared up at Sherlock. "Two years," John started on a whisper. He shook his head and drew in another long breath. He noisily breathed it out again and then straightened himself up to look him square in the eyes.

"Two years! Hmm?" John tried again in an oddly strangled whisper. He sniffed and groaned as if he was in pain before he slumped down again.

Sherlock could feel himself breaking out in sweat. Things were... not going well and he had no idea what he could do to make things better. He just wanted thing to get back to normal. Him, John, Kyrie... back at Baker Street... Together again. He cast a curious glance at John's date, trying to figure out how much of an influence she was in John's life.

"I thought..." John shared a look with his date and he flailed his hands helplessly. His dated looked at him with a look of sympathy shining in her eyes. She nodded at him encouragingly. John nodded back at her and straightened himself up. Sherlock swallowed again.

"I thought... you were dead. Hmm?" John's face started to have that angry look again. To make things worse, John started breathing rapidly. "Now, you let me grieve, hmm? How could you do that?"

Sherlock looked away. He bit his lip, trying to find a way to... ease the situation. Jokes usually helped, made people laugh. Yes?

"How?" John snarled. He stared at Sherlock with an intense look in his eyes, his nostrils flaring again.

"Wait... Before you do anything that you might regret..."

John groaned in response.

"... um, one question. Just let me ask one question. Um..."

John glared at him, daring him to ask his one question.

Sherlock startled to giggle nervously as he gestured towards his own top lip. "Are you really gonna keep that?" He smiled widely and turned his head to look at Mary. Her shocked laugher was not a good sign. Sherlock realised he was not getting out of this unscathed and steeled himself... It wasn't like he didn't deserve it after all.

John hurled himself at Sherlock, grabbed his lapels and roughly shoved him back across the floor until Sherlock suddenly lost his footing and they both tumbled to the floor. Sherlock's head snapped back harshly. When John started to throttle him, Sherlock didn't put up much of a defence but his date and several waiters were not having any of this and they pulled John away from him.


	38. I Said I'm Sorry

**A/N As I promised, here is the second chapter because this one is a bit shorter (only one page shorter but, meh).**

After they had all been thrown out of the restaurant, the three of them relocated themselves to a café. John had reluctantly 'introduced' his old friend to his date and Sherlock learnt her name was Mary Morstan.

The three of them were seated at a table, Sherlock facing John and Mary sitting in front of him. They both looked at him, their arms folded. Sherlock had his fingers steepled in front of him.

Now that they had arrived at the explanation of how things had went down, Sherlock started to feel a bit more relaxed.

"I calculated that there were thirteen possibilities once I'd invited Moriarty onto the roof," Sherlock began explaining. "I wanted to avoid dying if at all possible. Now, the first scenario involved hurling myself into a parked hospital van filled with washing bags. Impossible. The angle was too steep. Secondly, a system of Japanese wrestling..."

"You know, for a genius you can be remarkably thick," John snarled at him.

"What?"

"I don't care _how_ you faked it, Sherlock. I wanna know _why,"_ John said in a clipped tone.

" _Why_?" Sherlock asked a bit bewildered. "Because Moriarty had to be stopped!" Hmm, judging the look on John's face that was not what he wanted to hear. Then it hit him...

"Oh. Why as in..." Sherlock raised his finger and briefly pointed at John. John gave him a quiet nod.

"I see. Yes. _Why_?" Sherlock began slowly. "That's a little more difficult to explain."

"I've got all night," John glowered darkly.

Sherlock cleared his throat. This was going to get really awkward. "Actually, um, that was mostly Mycroft's idea."

"Oh, so it's your brother's plan?" John said scathingly.

Mary pointed at Sherlock, "Oh, he would have needed a confidant..." she stated.

Sherlock nodded at her in agreement. "Mm-hm." She was a clever girl. Not like one of those dimwitted, harebrained girls John used to date.

John sent Mary a warning look. "Sorry," she muttered. She refolded her arms again in solidarity to John.

"But he was the only one? The only one who knew?" John pressed on.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. Really, really, awkward... "C-couple of others," he finally admitted. Seeing the murderous look creep back in John's eyes again, Sherlock hurried to explain. "It was a very elaborate plan. It had to be. The next of the thirteen possibilities..."

"Who else?" John asked softly, cutting him off again. "Who. Else. Knew?"

Sherlock swallowed again. Really, really, really awkward...

"Who?"

"Molly," Sherlock said.

"Molly?" John echoed him in a scathing voice.

"John," Mary admonished him.

"Molly Hooper... and some of my homeless network, and that's all.

"Okay," John said. He straightened himself up a bit and glanced at Mary, who gave him an empathic smile. He turned to face Sherlock again. "Okay. So, just your brother, and Molly Hooper, and a hundred tramps."

Sherlock chuckled. "No! Twenty-five at most."

For the second time that evening, John hurled himself across the table in an attempt to throttle his former friend as they both tumbled to the floor. And for the second time of the evening, they found themselves thrown out of an establishment.

SSS

In a kebab shop, John and Mary were leaning against the counter. Sherlock had folded his Belstaff coat over the back of a chair that stood behind him near a table. He held a napkin pressed against a cut on his lower lip and he winced slightly. _Ouch, it stung!_

John glared at him. "And Kyrie?" he asked angrily. "You didn't bother to check in with her either, huh? Your own bloody wife. What are we to you, Sherlock? Pets? Pets you can take home with you and then discard them as you see fit?"

"Of course not," Sherlock mumbled.

"You really have no idea, have you? What your death did to us? To her? Even with all the pain and grief, I was actually the lucky one, Sherlock, because I met Mary. Kyrie didn't _have_ that kind of luck. She had no one but your parents for a short while. You broke her, Sherlock. You BROKE her!" John snarled at him.

Sherlock flinched and didn't know where to look. With how things were going, he was starting to dread having to confront Kyrie.

"Her grief had to be real, John. While I was away dismantling Moriarty's network, only her grief would be able to keep her safe from... you know."

They were quiet for a moment and Sherlock started to wish he could press some kind of forward button so he could skip to where things would be back to normal again... if they ever would get back to normal. Try for a joke again?

"Seriously, it's not a joke?" He pointed to his upper lip, "You're... you're really keeping this?"

John cleared his throat and cast an angry glare at Sherlock. "Yeah," he said.

"You're sure?"

"Mary likes it."

Sherlock briefly glanced at Mary. "Mmmmmm, no she doesn't."

"She does," John said in disagreement.

"She doesn't," Sherlock countered and pressed the napkin back against the cut, as if that was the end of the discussion.

John turned his head to look at Mary. His eyes suddenly grew large and Mary made a few spluttering noises.

"Oh!" he cried out trying to cover his moustache with his hand. "Brilliant."

"I'm sorry. Oh, I'm sorry... I didn't know how to tell you," Mary sounded all apologetic.

"No, no, this is charming!" John said agitated while looking at Mary. He pointed angrily in Sherlock's direction. "I've really missed _this_!" he snapped. Sherlock had a feeling John was referring to his talent of instant deduction.

Though John had always been an open admirer of his skills, Sherlock suspected that John was at the moment more likely to tell him to 'Piss off'.

Suddenly John took a fierce step in Sherlock's direction, so he was facing him up close and personal.

" _One_ word, Sherlock," he hissed. "That is all I would have needed. All Kyrie would have needed. One word to let us know that you were alive." John took a step back again, trying to regain his composure.

"I wanted to, John," Sherlock began quietly. "Believe me, there were so many times I nearly did it... tried to contact you, and her. But..."

John chuckled sardonically.

"... I worried that, you know, you might say something indiscreet."

"What?

"Well, you know, let the cat out of the bag."

John immediately stepped right in front of Sherlock again. "Oh, so this is my fault?"

"Oh God!" Mary exclaimed. Sherlock couldn't blame her. He himself too was starting to feel like he'd been roped into some kind of variety show.

John started to lose his temper again. "Why am I the only one who thinks that this is wrong... the only one reacting like a human being?!" He yelled.

"Over-reacting," Sherlock averred.

" _Over-reacting_?!" John screeched and he looked about ready to pop a vein.

"John!" Mary warned him.

" _Over-reacting_... So you fake your own death..."

"Shh!" Sherlock tried to warn him.

"... and you waltz in 'ere large as bloody life..."

"Shh!" Sherlock warned him again.

John tempered his volume a bit. "... but I'm not supposed to have a problem with that, no, because Sherlock Holmes thinks it's a perfectly OKAY THING TO DO!"

John was right back at yelling again but this time Sherlock lost his temper too. "Shut up, John!" He bellowed. "I don't want everyone knowing I'm still alive!"

"Oh, so it's still a secret, is it?" John yelled.

"Yes! It's still a secret!" Sherlock cried out, sneaking a look a the other customers in the shop. "Promise you won't tell anyone," he remarked dryly.

"Swear to God!" John hissed. He then seemed to notice the other customers as well and he backed down a bit, suddenly looking a bit self-conscious. He breathed out slowly.

"London is in danger, John. There's an imminent terrorist attack and I need your help."

John stared at him, a look of amazement in his eyes. Ah, Sherlock knew the old John was still in there somewhere! John did share a bit of an odd look with Mary though.

"My help?" John said, as if he couldn't believe his ears.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit before he curled his lips in a wide smile. "You _have_ missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world..."

He did not get a chance to finish his sentence, as John grabbed his lapels for the third time that evening.

When John reared his head back, that really should have been a warning sign for Sherlock, but he'd been too caught up, revelling in that old feeling that started to creep back... The Game is on... Instead, his world exploded in sparkles and pain when John's hard head connected with his face. 

SSS

Not long after, Sherlock found himself looking up at the night sky, holding his head back as blood kept running from his nose.

"I don't understand," he whined. "I said I'm sorry. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?" He pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, held the paper napkin underneath with his other and then slowly tilted his head forward.

Mary was standing next to him, her hands buried deep inside the pockets of her coat. She watched as John tried to hail them a cab, without much luck so far.

"Gosh. You don't know anything about human nature, do you?" she asked, looking him up and down as if he were some kind of alien.

Sherlock studied her face. "Mmm, nature? No. Human...? No," he said softly, and he sent her a self-mocking smile. His look turned more serious. "Do you know if he and... Kyrie... kept in touch?" he asked tentatively.

"They didn't," she told him. "They both had a hard time, you know, coping..."

Sherlock nodded his head, though in all honesty, he couldn't really relate. Those were the kind of emotional intricacies that always seemed to elude him. "They haven't been in touch at all?" he asked quietly.

"They only met recently again. And I only know because I was there."

His head shot up and he stared at her with an intense look in his eyes. "You've seen her?"

Mary looked at him with curiosity. "Yes, I have," she replied thoughtfully.

"How was she?"

"Well, I think she looked absolutely stunning. I mean... any prettier than that and I probably would have hated her," Mary said with a wry smile. "Thank God she appeared to be pretty aloof... Nice, but... aloof. According to John, though, she looked terrible."

"Kyrie is anything but aloof," Sherlock said sadly.

"Hate to break it to you then, but I don't think you will find her quite the same as when you left."

Sherlock looked at John and felt quite forlorn. He had not been able to rekindle his friendship with John and from what they had told him, it was very unlikely that Kyrie would respond any differently.

He remembered her easygoing nature, how she used to readily forgive him anything. He was hoping some of that forgiving nature was still there.

"I'll talk him round."

Sherlock took the napkin from under his nose and he cast her a curious glance. "You will?" he asked in astonishment.

Mary smiled at him with the self-assurance of a woman who knew how much she was loved and valued. "Oh yeah," she said.

He took a closer look at her and suddenly he noticed stuff that he hadn't notice before. He saw that she was an only child, a linguist... she was clever... oh yes, she was very clever... part time nurse, she was short-sighted and she baked her own bread, like Kyrie... she loved cats and clearly she was a romantic. Somehow he sensed she was hiding things as well. For John's sake, he didn't dwell too long on that thought.

"Mary!" John called out at her. Sherlock looked up and saw John had managed to get them a cab. She gave him a quick smile before she turned away and joined John. Sherlock stared after them until the taxi drove off.

With a resigned sigh, he started moving. Well, his reunion with John hadn't exactly gone as he'd hoped. Now it was time to see what his reunion with Kyrie would bring.


	39. Dream a Little Dream

**A/N Surprise! Early update (third one today -gasps!-) I've made nice progress writing 'His Last Vow' so I thought I'd end your misery and give you what you want. So, here it is. Kyrie and Sherlock reunited. Don't worry... there is still plenty of trouble ahead for them – evil grin –**

 **In return for this, could you guys please let me know your preference? Though the 'real' romance is not just there yet, it's now definitely on the way. It will then still take some time to... heat up... But that too is coming. It's all written and on my hard drive. But... do you want me to upload stuff like that? Or do you want a discreet 'Fade to Black' or maybe read it in a separate differently rated story? Or do you want it Hot and Steamy in the story itself? Let me know please!**

 **Sorry for not answering individual reviews this time but it's late, I have the flu, I'm tired and I thought you'd guys would appreciate the update more than individual replies. Though I AM absolutely thrilled and giddy that you guys are still with me. The only reason I've been forcing myself to write today!**

 **Okay, I'll stop rambling. Don't forget to let me know what you want to read when the romance evolves!**

 **Have fun!**

 **Oh, last thing, I promise! There's some coarse language in this chapter in a flashback to Gerulf's response when he visited Kyrie. Nothing happens, as I'd already promised... but just in case I made that little flashback bold.**

SSS

Kyrie slammed the door shut behind her. She removed her coat when her hands suddenly stilled. Frowning, she turned around to look at the door. From the door she looked at the keys that dangled from her fingers. Had she even used the keys? For a moment she could have sworn her door hadn't been locked. She shook her head. Nah... She was just tired and imagining things.

She walked across the hallway, opened the door to her living room and turned on the lights. The sudden vision of Sherlock sitting in her armchair made her jump, her heart nearly leaping to her throat in shock. Kyrie closed her eyes and pressed a calming hand to her chest. She breathed out slowly.

"Geez," she told him. "You don't usually lurk about in the dark. You nearly gave me a heart attack," she muttered. She then walked past him and entered her small kitchen. "If you came back just to complain some more, you can just leave again" Kyrie said while rummaging around in the fridge to find something to eat. "I'm not in the mood tonight."

"You... don't look surprised to see me," Sherlock said. His deep timbre sounded so real, it nearly made Kyrie double over in pain. "And I haven't complained about anything, I've only just... returned."

"Oh please," Kyrie snorted as she lobbed a plate filled with some variant of veggies into her microwave oven. "You complain every single time. You complain about everything." Except maybe the last time he came back to haunt her.

"What do I complain about?" Sherlock asked her in a measured tone.

" _Everything_!" she replied. "From the lack of personal items in this flat, to my clothing and..." she closed her eyes briefly. "You always insist I have to let you go, while _you_ are the one who won't leave me the hell alone."

"Kyrie, I don't think you understand..." Sherlock said carefully. "I'm, I'm... not dead."

"That's a new one," she remarked dryly. Sudden realisation dawned on her. "Ah," she said. "Now I get it... Few too many 'Empty Hearse' meetings, I guess."

"How long have you been... seeing me?" he asked. "Does John know?"

Kyrie closed her eyes. She wasn't up to this, not now. Usually it felt good in a weird sort of way, to be able to talk with him, even though she really was just talking to herself. But every time she saw him, it just made her realise how much she missed the real him. "Don't, Sherlock," she pleaded with him. "Today was not a good day. I can't do this now."

Sherlock raised himself from her armchair. It was amazing how much detail she could hear. From the soft sounds his shoes made against the stone tiles to the brushing sound of his coat. He turned to face her. Kyrie swallowed hard and forced herself to look away. He looked so... real. A bit older, a bit rougher around the edges, not that image of him she usually saw, as if he was frozen in time, always coming back to her that same way. Except tonight.

"Today started as good day for me," Sherlock said wryly, taking a tentative step closer to her. "But tonight was a complete train wreck."

When he looked at her, his eyes suddenly darkened with concern. "You have changed," he said. "You look different."

Kyrie chuckled humourlessly. "That didn't take long," she muttered. When her microwave beeped, she turned around to fetch her dinner, nabbing utensils from her kitchen drawer along the way.

She moved across the kitchen towards her living room. When she wanted to flop down on her sofa Sherlock suddenly stepped in her way. He had an unfathomable look in his eyes. She warily eyed him when he slowly stretched out his hand. Wordlessly, he took her plate from her hands then half turned to put her plate down on her coffee table.

When he turned back to look at her, Kyrie could feel all the blood drain from her face. Her breathing started to pick up speed, as did her heart rate. She took a terrified step back, her mind racing to try and find a plausible explanation for what had just happened.

"No," she whispered. "This isn't real. You can't be real. I've gone mad..."

"You haven't, Kyrie," Sherlock said softly. "I'm back," he said with a tight smile.

She looked up at him and only then noticed some traces of blood near his nose. He took in her every reaction and seemed to lack that air of certainty and authority he used to carry. Right now, he looked a bit lost and unsure.

"I saw you die," she whispered. "I saw you fall to your death... I heard your body hit the..."

"No."

"I saw your face, it was _your_ face, that was _you_ lying _dead_ on the pavement!" her voice started to sound a bit shrilly.

"It _was_ me," he admitted, "Just, not dead."

"I buried you," she continued. "I mourned you!"

"Yes. I... saw you, that day," he took a step closer towards her.

Kyrie felt her cheeks flush at the memory... She had practically sang him a love song on the day she buried him, he had seen her that day and now he was standing here.

Her mind was battling her heart. Her heart told her that it really was Sherlock who was standing right in front of her. It reacted violently to his close proximity. But her head told her that this couldn't be real... She had either completely lost her mind or she was just about to buy into another fantastic daydream again. One that would only leave her heart broken that much more when she had to face another day, confronted with the bleak and stark reality of having to live life without him.

"I can't do this again," she told him.

"Do what?" he asked in soft voice.

"Hope..." she stated simply and swallowed hard. "I will just shatter in the morning and I'm tired... Sherlock, I am so, so tired!"

His fingers caressed her cheek and slid behind her neck. "I'm real, Kyrie," he whispered. "I'm not going away and I'm not leaving you again."

Kyrie's breath hitched in her throat when she could actually feel his touch. When she looked up at him, she saw something shine in his eyes. Yet another look she'd never seen before. She wondered if this was moment was really happening... if she would get the chance to one day learn the meaning of this new look.

She slowly raised her hand up and halted momentarily, before she gingerly touched his cheek. She sharply sucked in her breath when she felt warm skin instead of empty air. She let her fingers travel up and twisted a few curls around them. From his hair, her fingers travelled down to his cheek again, from there to his full lips and from there to his chin. No matter what area of his face she touched, warm skin met warm skin.

With a small gasp she pulled back her hand. When their eyes met, he smiled carefully.

"I will hate you in the morning and there will be hell to pay, Sherlock. You owe me an explanation," she warned him.

"Yes," he agreed.

"And you will deal with my anger without complaining."

This time it took him a bit longer to reply. "Yes," he finally agreed.

"Good... Then we are in agreement. For now... I'm just too relieved... You're not dead!" she said in astonishment and she promptly hurled herself into his arms.

He groaned as if he was in pain when he caught her, but Kyrie ignored his frigid tendencies. She breathed in his scent and rested her head against his shoulder. She clung to him and smiled when he wrapped his arms around her without her asking him to do so.

They stood there for a while, she didn't want to let go of him, afraid he might disappear after all.

"What now?" she whispered.

"Back to Baker Street of course," he replied just a softly.

Kyrie froze in his arms. Of course... He was Sherlock Holmes, he belonged in Baker Street. But where did she belong? Gerulf Schricken had made it clear he was no longer interested in her.

"Right," she said, pulling herself away from him. "So, this was just a courtesy call then? To let me know you're still alive?" A cold edge crept into her voice.

"Actually, I thought..." he started, sounding a bit unsure. "I thought you'd be coming with me?"

"Do you want me to?"

Sherlock didn't answer her, he just stared down at her with that unfathomable expression of his again.

Kyrie realised that they had reached in impasse for the evening. Sherlock seemed to expect her to come back with him to Baker Street, but she was not going anywhere, not this evening.

She walked away and disappeared through a door in the living room. She climbed the stairs leading to her bed room and opened the top drawer of her Queen Anne style dresser. Her fingers gently caressed the fabric of the clothing that was on top. Then she pulled out a pair of Sherlock's own pj's. It was the light blue shirt and pair of plaid pants in matching colours. She grabbed the articles of clothing with her and returned to the living room.

She couldn't help but smile a bit, seeing Sherlock seated in her armchair again. This time, his Belstaff was draped over the back of the chair... a subtle clue perhaps? He was staring off into space, the tips of his fingers lightly pressed together, while he absently rubbed his chin with his index fingers.

"You're dinner is getting cold," he remarked when he noticed she'd returned.

"No longer hungry." Kyrie bundled his pj's under her left arm and went to pick up her plate, the one Sherlock had put on her coffee table. She carried it to the kitchen, emptied the plate in her green bin, returned and offered Sherlock his pj's. "I'm not coming to Baker Street with you tonight," she told him. "You can spend the night here if you want, or..."

Sherlock wordlessly accepted the offered garments. He had the decency to not give her any grief over the fact she had clothing of his in her possession. Kyrie showed him to the bathroom upstairs and her bedroom. She was unsure about what sleeping arrangement he'd prefer. The only viable options were either sharing her bed, or one of them would have to take the sofa.

Wanting to stall that moment, Kyrie quickly disappeared into her bathroom to give her body a quick wash and start her evening routine of methodically brushing her teeth and combing and braiding her hair. Dressed in her nightshirt, she padded back to her bedroom. There she found Sherlock, already dressed in his plaid pants and currently struggling to pull the shirt over his head.

A strangled cry tore from her chest seeing his bruised and battered torso. His whole body stiffened. Clearly, he had not intended for her to see him like that. Kyrie walked up to him and gently took the shirt from his hands. Her fingers shook as she reached out to touch the bruises. The moment she did, he hissed and his skin flinched.

"Sorry, she murmured.

"It's okay," he said tautly.

"Lie down," she ordered him. He cast her a wary look over his shoulder, but she warned him with her eyes not not fight her on this. He reluctantly complied to her wish and lowered his body onto her bed, groaning in pain as he did so.

Kyrie quickly disappeared into her bathroom again, but reappeared shortly, carrying two small vials with her and a fluffy towel.

"On your stomach, please," she ordered him.

He moaned in protest but a stern glare made him shut up. He groaned a bit but rolled onto his stomach as she'd ordered him. Kyrie opened the two vials and poured a small bit of its contents in her hand, a bit of arnica oil and a bit of calendula oil. She rubbed the oils warm in her hands as she came up behind Sherlock.

He gasped in startled shock when she suddenly straddled his back. "Relax," she ordered him. With a gentle touch, she applied the oil to his skin, quickly running her hands over his entire back, allowing herself to explore.

He hissed a few times when she hit a few tender spots. Then she placed her thumbs in the middle of his neck, her fingers working his muscles. He groaned a bit and Kyrie could tell he was reluctant to relax. She knew exactly what to do.

Her fingers and thumb migrated to the occipital ridge on the back of his skull, making tiny gentle circles. Sherlock spluttered a bit and made a few unintelligent noises, before he went silent. She felt his head sink into her pillow and she smiled in triumph.

She pushed her thumbs hard against the muscles at the top of his shoulders, kneading, breaking the tension she felt. Then, holding her fingers still, she worked with just her thumbs, moving up from between his shoulder blades to separate the strands of muscle there.

She could feel a small shudder run through him. Every now and then, an involuntary groan of content escaped his lips. With her palms facing out, she began to stroke the length of his back on his sides, where he was bruised the least, moving up towards his neck as his muscles rolled under her thumbs. She was careful to not upset the parts in the middle of his back that were stressed with the cuts and bruises. She let her fingertips brush his sides. He sighed as she continued the movement of her hands up and down his back.

She traced the outside of his arms and then across his shoulders before moving down his back using just enough pressure to relax him totally.

Suddenly his arms and legs started to twitch before falling still completely. A few moments later, he snored slightly before shifting to a very slow rhythm, breathing deeply. Sherlock had fallen asleep.

Kyrie carefully moved herself away from him and dried her hands on the towel. She then looked down on his sleeping form, her brows furrowed in deep thought. Her head was starting to catch up with her heart and she realised that this was Sherlock, sound asleep in her bed, after he pretended to be dead for two miserable years. She shook her head. There would be time to sort this out tomorrow.

She walked across the bedroom to turn off the light and then walked over to the bed to carefully pull the covers away from underneath him. She then slipped underneath them and covered them both. Rolling onto her side, she rested her head on her right elbow and watched him sleep. Though his face looked relaxed, she could still see traces of anxiety troubling his sleep. She ran a soothing hand over his head, carefully smoothing a few stray curls to the side. In his slumber, he inched closer towards her, seeking her warmth. At some point, Kyrie decided to rest her head in the crook of his shoulder.

She splayed her fingers on his chest, content to feel it rise and fall under the palm of her hand, in rhythm with his breathing. Too tired to stay awake for long, Kyrie closed her eyes so she could join him in sleep.

SSS

Her mind was fuzzy. The last remnants of a dream chased away as conscious thought took over. Kyrie cautiously opened one eye. Bright rays of sunlight cut her room in half and she could see dust-motes dancing around in the wall of light. She didn't have to look behind her to know that the space next to her was unoccupied.

She slowly pushed herself upright and started the mundane routine of getting dressed and ready for a new day.

When she entered her living room, she blinked her eyes a few times, seeing that Sherlock was already perfectly dressed and groomed, sitting her in her arm chair. It was still hard to believe he was actually here.

She was wearing a black velvet cheongsam dress herself. The delicate flower designs wrapping around her shoulder and thigh were the only splash of colour to adorn it.

"I used one of your toothbrush replacement heads," Sherlock said quietly. "I hope you don't mind."

"It's fine," Kyrie said. The clipped tone of her voice made him look up at her. His mouth made a quiet 'oh' movement and it satisfied her to see that an anxious look crept into his eyes.

"I guess you want that explanation now?" he asked her.

"You guess correctly."

"Can you at least sit down? I don't want to have to look up at you the entire time."

"Looking up at a woman, it's beneath you?" Kyrie scoffed as she walked over to her sofa. She carefully sat down, crossed her legs and looked at him.

"No," Sherlock said, a puzzled look on his face at her comment. "It's just a bit painful... To maintain that position with my head, right now," he added in a hurry when she rolled her eyes. "Right," he said, as if he wasn't entirely sure how to begin.

"So, Moriarty had to be stopped. There was intel that he either created or had his hands on that keyCode. To be able to stop him, completely stop him, we needed to get a handle on the full scope of his operation. Mycroft and I devised a plan. A plan we started back when we were in Dartmoor."

"You and Mycroft?" Kyrie interjected. "Mycroft knew? All along?"

"Yes, it was his idea in fact. We knew that the criminal network Moriarty headed was vast. Its roots were everywhere like a cancer, so we came up with a plan... Mycroft fed Moriarty information about me-"

"Wait, he did that on purpose? You knew?" Kyrie asked. She thought back to when all that went down and started to feel sick that it had all been... an act.

"Yes," Sherlock admitted. "Moriarty in turn gave us hints, just hints, as to the extent of his web. We let him go..." he looked at Kyrie.

"That's what Mycroft meant, when he called you and asked you to tell me that 'The stage was set'. In his own clumsy way, even though we agreed that you and John could not be involved, he was trying to warn you."

Kyrie chuckled humourlessly. "His warning sucked."

"It was important to let Moriarty believe he had the upper hand. And then I sat back and watched Moriarty destroy my reputation bit by bit. I had to make him believe he'd beaten me, utterly defeated me, and then he'd show his hand. There were thirteen likely scenarios once we were up on that roof. Each of them were rigorously worked out and given a code name. It wasn't just my reputation that Moriarty needed to bury... I had to die."

Kyrie closed her eyes at those words. She could still vividly remember seeing Sherlock fall from the roof, that sickening crunch she heard and that awful visage of seeing him sprawled over the pavement.

"There was a brief moment I believed I would not have to go all the way to the point of actually faking my death. We had enough information to dismantle his entire network and he told me himself there was no keyCode. But, there were three snipers in place. If I didn't kill my self... John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade... they would get killed."

Kyrie gasped in shock.

"I tried to call his bluff, so to speak. I knew, so did he, I would be able to make him call off the killers. But the one thing I didn't anticipate was just how far Moriarty was prepared to go. I suppose that was obvious, given our first meeting at the swimming pool... his death wish. He killed himself, up that roof and I knew I didn't have long. I contacted Mycroft, set the wheels in motion. And then everyone got to work."

Sherlock looked away from her, not able to maintain their eye contact. Kyrie saw a flash of emotion cross his face, regret... pain...? It was hard to tell.

"It was vital that you and John stayed just where I put you. That way, your view was blocked by the ambulance station."

"That's why you were so frantic, when you told us to stop," Kyrie stated flatly.

"Yes. Otherwise you'd see the airbag... I needed to hit the airbag, which I did. The moment I did, everyone else sprang into action, assumed position... Speed was paramount." Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, still looking away from her. "You... we needed you to see a body," he said quietly.

Kyrie felt her eyes brimming with tears, as Sherlock so dispassionately told her how he had so cruelly deceived her and John.

"That's where Molly came in," Sherlock told her, softly.

"Molly?" she choked out. "Molly knew?"

"Yes, she provided a body, and two others shoved it out of an open window. Like figures on a weather clock, we went one way, you two went the other. Then our well-timed cyclist..."

"Tone down the smugness, Sherlock, remember who you are talking to," she warned him.

"Our... cyclist... put the two of you briefly out of action, giving me time to switch places with the corpse on the pavement."

Kyrie clasped her hand in front of her mouth at the memory. That horrid memory where she had tried to reach his body. Now she understood why she'd been so cruelly dragged away, why she was denied to cradle his body in her arms.

"The rest was just window dressing," Sherlock said so softly, it was almost a whisper. "And one final touch... a squash ball under the armpit... Apply enough pressure and it momentarily cuts off the pulse."

"You knew... you knew that John would check your pulse," she whispered.

"Yes," Sherlock said, still unable to look at her. Everything was anticipated, every eventuality allowed for. It worked..." he smiled wryly. "It worked perfectly."

"So, Molly Hooper, the woman who has a major crush on you... _She_ got to know that you were alive. _She_ was spared the pain of having to grieve over you? _She_ was in on it while I had to mourn you?"

"Yes," Sherlock admitted. He swallowed hard. "You remember the little girl who was abducted by Moriarty?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Anderson and Donovan assumed she reacted like that because I was her kidnapper. But I deduced Moriarty must have found someone who looked very like me to plant suspicion, and that that man... whoever he was... had to be got out of the way as soon as his usefulness ended. That meant there was a corpse in a morgue somewhere that looked just like me."

"Of course... the body that hit the pavement."

"Yes. Molly was able to find that body and she faked the records. I provided the other coat. I've got lots of coats."

"I've seen your wardrobe back in Baker Street," Kyrie hissed. "I know!" She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She then looked back at him. "What about the killers... I mean, the killer aiming at John? He would have seen."

"Right, Mycroft's men intervened before he could take the shot. He was invited to... _reconsider_."

"And then you disappeared. For two years. And you couldn't be bothered to give me one damned phone call, or have some one else do it for you. Not even Mycroft... For heaven's sakes, Sherlock! He saw me wither away to nothing, and he knew!" her voice shook with bitterness and rage.

"Would you have tried to contact me?" Sherlock asked softly. "If Mycroft would have told you, and that it was not possible to contact me at all... Would you have accepted that?"

"I would have wanted to hear your voice, myself, to be sure..." Kyrie admitted.

"That's why Mycroft didn't tell you. Why he couldn't. There were so many times I nearly did it... Stood there, phone in hand, already dialling your number, or John's. But I couldn't..."

"Why not?" Kyrie wiped at her eyes.

Sherlock didn't answer immediately and he had a pained expression on his face. "Because... Um... I couldn't... If I had called John, he would have told you. And you were the one person who couldn't know. At first... At first because Mycroft and I were banking on the fact that I had inspired enough feeling in you, that your grief would no longer make you appealing for Gerulf."

"He visited me after six months," Kyrie whispered.

For a moment she remembered... **Gerulf standing in the living room, visibly aroused by the fact that Sherlock was dead and now he would finally have her. Until she stood up and faced him.**

 **Sherlock's death had ripped her apart and she found she no longer cared. And that's exactly what she told Gerulf. She'd even started unbuttoning her blouse, daring him to take her. If he wanted her, he could have her. She didn't have the strength to either fight or care. The arousal instantly fled his body. He cast her one last look of loathing. "I'd rather fuck a corpse," he bit out and left her with her sorrow.**

"You and Mycroft had foreseen right, he gave me one look of revulsion and he left... That still leaves a year and a half in which you could have given me a phone call... anything, to let me know you were alive."

Sherlock raised himself from the armchair and went to sit next to her. "I really couldn't. I'm sorry, more than you know... I didn't mean for you to be so hurt. I never expected you to... I'm sorry..."

"Saying sorry isn't going to cut it, Sherlock. Not this time. You can't pretend you are dead for TWO years and then think you can make that right by just saying 'I'm sorry'. "

"I understand," he said calmly, accepting her words. Slowly, Sherlock arose from her sofa and walked back to her armchair where his Belstaff was still draped over the back.

"So, now it's back to Baker Street?" she asked. "And I should just come along with you?"

Sherlock was just looping his scarf around his neck. He turned his face to look at her, his eyes cloudy with trepidation. "Aren't you?" he asked.

"What for, exactly, Sherlock?" She smiled wanly, trying to hide her misery. "Gerulf is no longer interested in me, so there's no need to pretend any longer. We can get a divorce now... I'll be safe, your parents will be safe. So, tell me... What did you have in mind?"

Sherlock stared at her, his face paler than usual. He clamped his jaws together so tightly that a nerve pulsed in his cheek. He blinked his eyes a couple of times and did not seem to find the right words. Suddenly he looked right into her eyes.

"The thing is... London's in danger. There'll be an attack and I promised Mycroft I'd find the terrorist cell. Divorce is a long procedure even in the case both parties agree. There's the divorce petition, the issue of a decree nisi, waiting... lot's of waiting.

"It's a hassle... and... um... I wouldn't mind if things would... continue as before. In fact-" he sighed and put his hands on her shoulders. His brows snapped together over his cerulean eyes when he changed his mind and suddenly released his grip on her.

"Kyrie," he said, trying again. "I'm a creature of habit. Like I told you, about two years ago, a divorce would not leave me entirely unaffected. So, let me offer you the same deal you once offered me... Let's go home, together. Come back to Baker Street with me. And the moment you want out, you let me know. I won't stand in your way."

She looked up at him and had no idea what to make of this. He was discussing their marriage as if it was a common business arrangement... without any feeling, without any emotion. And yet, the way he was now regarding her, as if she held his fate in her hands, made it seem he was not as indifferent as he wanted to make her believe. And suddenly she understood.

"You saw John first, didn't you?" she asked, her voice soft in acceptance. "You know he won't be returning to Baker Street and you don't want to be there on your own. Is that it?"

Sherlock averted his eyes from her. He said nothing but looked abashed and Kyrie saw a look of regret briefly flicker across his taut features. She closed her eyes. Damn him... damn him to Hell! He was her greatest weakness and Kyrie knew that was very unlikely to change... ever.

"Fine," she conceded. "I'll come back to Baker Street with you." She wondered if deep down maybe she hated herself. Why else would she agree to stay married to a man who had professed time and time again he could not and would not love?

His eyes blazed with relief and a glimmer of a self-satisfied smile appeared at his lips.

"Good!" he said in a buoyant tone. "Now, let's go make a few calls. People saw me last night and I'd rather 'break the news' to some people myself."

"Fine," Kyried sighed and she headed out to her hallway to put on her black coat. She was just in the process of looping her scarf around her neck when Sherlock suddenly appeared right behind her.

"You're wearing that?" he asked her, his tone a bit reproaching.

"Yes," she replied, her voice cool and stiff. "It is my coat and unlike you I don't have an unlimited supply. Also, just in fair warning... you try and make _one_ comment about my eye colour and the entire 'Baker Street deal' is off. Am I clear?" She turned around to look at him.

"I wasn't-" he shut up seeing the glacial expression on her face. "Very..." he assented with reluctance. Kyrie pretended she didn't notice how Sherlock kept throwing sneaky glances at her as if he didn't know what to make of her. She simply arched a brow at him and gestured her hand at her front door, silently telling him to lead the way.


	40. Of Goldfish and Veil-tails

**A/N Okay so, this chapter is twice as long than my usual chapters. I'm very sorry if this makes your eyes hurt. I just couldn't find a good moment to split this up without one chapter becoming ridiculously short. So, I decided to leave this one for as it is... a long ass chapter!**

 **As for the 'sex' scenes. I'm not into graphic porn/smut/sex scenes. The scenes I have written are more along the lines of what you would read in a historic romance novel, not the cheap little 'sex' books. No 'throbbing cocks' or 'wet pussies' will be found here.**

 **Anyway, if most favour goes to adding it in the story, I can always give a heads up at the start and figure something out to make it a bit easier for those who want to skip it.**

 **Also, a word of warning. Savour this chapter and enjoy the calm... In the next one, things will be going down!**

 **Dee Thank you for your compliment and I also noted you down for 'yes, sex please.'**

 **Guest Aw, that's so sweet of you to say, I'm glad you enjoyed their reunion! And well, Sherlock trying to have a 'real' wife and learning to love and be loved, kind of is the entire set up of this story ;-) I noted you down fo 'no sex please'.**

 **DreamonAlina Glad to see you like this chapter. Enjoy this update! I noted you down for 'yes, sex please'.**

 **EllemichelleP Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed this chapter. It was a bit of a poignant scene for me, to have Sherlock find out just how much of an effect his death had on her. I think when someone has died, and you love them so much... and they suddenly appear to not to be that, the first reaction will be relief. The anger comes later. So that's why she responds that way.**

 **Katt96 Yeah, Kyrie is pretty cranky, but don't forget, she's lashing out because she's been hurt, as you will see this chapter.**

SSS

Their first stop was at St Bartholomew's Hospital. Sherlock and Kyrie were waiting in the locker room, waiting for someone who would soon be in need of a fresh change of clothes. Sherlock had... arranged something. Kyrie smiled wryly at the thought. He just couldn't bring himself to simply saunter in and say 'Hi, I'm back'.

Soon enough, the person they'd been waiting for walked into the locker room, heaving a frustrated sigh. Molly Hooper took out her keys and opened her locker. The door swung open and Kyrie could tell the exact moment when Molly noticed Sherlock standing behind her, just a short distance away, by her small gasp. When she turned around, a tentative smile played on her lips.

"You're back!" she breathed in giddy excitement, but her smile faded the moment she noticed Kyrie standing behind Sherlock. "Oh, you're here too," she added a bit awkwardly.

"I am," Sherlock remarked pleasantly as he gave her a quick smile. "The news will start to spread soon, I'm sure, and I wanted you to learn of my return from me, not the... news."

"It's good to have you back," Molly said with a shaky smile. "How've you been?"

"Busy." And that was all he seemed willing to reveal about the subject.

Molly then turned her face to look at Kyrie. "I'm sorry, by the way, for..."

"... deceiving me into thinking Sherlock was dead? Lying to my face about him being dead? Not bothering for two years to come forward and tell me the truth? I just bet you are, Molly," Kyrie said with a clipped terseness in her voice.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them.

"I'm sorry, Molly," Sherlock finally said in a careful and measured way. "I'm afraid Kyrie isn't feeling very... friendly... lately. Um... It was nice seeing you again. See you soon, Molly."

Kyrie turned around and left the locker room, waiting for Sherlock to catch up with her so they could visit the next person on his list. Though Sherlock sent her a few more odd looks, he was wise enough to make no comments.

Sherlock led her to Scotland Yard's underground car park. Kyrie walked across the path, seeing the familiar figure of Greg Lestrade walking across the area, searching for something in his pockets as he went. Next to her, Sherlock was quickly walking past her to reach an unlit area of the car park. Soon his silhouette got swallowed entirely by the shadows.

Kyrie accidentally kicked a can as she made her way towards him. Greg looked up and a startled smile appeared at his lips. "Kyrie!" he greeted her while tipping a cigarette out of a pack. He stuck it into his mouth while putting the pack back into his pocket. "What are you doing here?" he asked as he flicked his lighter and raised it to lit his cigarette.

"Well..." Kyrie started when suddenly Sherlock's voice cut through the darkness.

"Those things'll kill you."

Greg froze on the spot. The flame of his lighter never quite reached its goal, as Greg stared into the inky blackness. He turned his head to look at Kyrie, who merely shrugged her shoulders in turn. He looked back, lowered the lighter and took the cig from his mouth.

"Ooh, you bastard!" he exclaimed in sudden realisation. Sherlock appeared from the shadows, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips. Kyrie rolled her eyes seeing the smugness on his face.

"It's time to come back," he said casually. "You've been letting things slide, Graham."

"Greg!" Greg said, sounding exasperated. Kyrie snorted. Maybe she should feel special that Sherlock had somehow managed to get her name right at some point, while he still couldn't remember a simple name like 'Greg'.

"Greg," Sherlock quickly corrected himself.

Greg stared at him for a long moment. His lips slowly curled into a toothy grimace before he lunged himself towards Sherlock, pulling him in for a bear hug. Sherlock cast a helpless look at Kyrie in a silent plea for help as he couldn't prevent himself from groaning in pain.

She had to give it to him, Sherlock actually tolerated Greg's hug though he did undergo this display of affection in a bit of a long-suffering manner. Her lips curled into a wicked grin.

"Tighter, Greg," she said with a smile. "I don't think he's feeling all the love yet."

Sherlock grunted in pain when Greg roared, wrapped his arms tighter around him and actually lifted him off the ground.

Finally Greg released Sherlock and Kyrie couldn't keep the satisfied smile from her face, seeing Sherlock's pained grimace.

Greg didn't seem to notice. "Anderson was right!" he muttered in disbelief. "I can't believe the bloody idiot was actually right!" Greg erupted in a boisterous laugh. "You're really back! Isn't that something?"

Suddenly the smile dropped from his face. "I'm so sorry for how things went down... You know, when I had you arrested. Donovan and Anderson went over my head and I just tried to cover my own arse... Think we can call it even? You playing dead for two years..." Greg gave Kyrie a pointed look. "It wasn't exactly a picnic."

"I know it had to be done," Sherlock said magnanimously. "No hard feelings. Now, if you don't mind... we have one final stop to make."

With those words Sherlock stalked away, only stopping near the end of the car park when he noticed Kyrie wasn't following him. Greg had pulled her to the side.

"Are you two okay?" Greg asked her, a worried look in his eyes. "I thought you'd be happier... with him back. You've been visiting those silly Empty Hearse meetings, you've heard every outlandish theory... Isn't this what you hoped for?"

Kyrie turned her face to look at him and smiled sadly. "I _am_ happy he's back. I think part of me still believes it's... all just in my head. And besides that, I'm also angry with him. He put me through Hell, Greg. I've put up with a lot of his antics before, but this... This is not something I can easily forgive or forget."

"Right," Greg said in understanding. "Just... don't take too long, okay? If Sherlock Holmes can come back from the dead, so can Kyrie Holmes," he said pointedly. Kyrie gave him a small smile before she walked away to join Sherlock.

Their last stop was home... 221B Baker Street. Sherlock smiled down at Kyrie when he pulled the keys from his pocket and proceeded to open the door. He put a finger against his lips, cautioning her to be silent. They reached the door with the frosted window, the one leading into the hallway and Sherlock carefully and oh so quietly, opened it. Kyrie noticed the anxious look on his face and she realised he dreaded having to confront yet another person with the depth of his deceit.

The moment the door swung open, they were greeted by a horrified Mrs Hudson, awaiting them with a frying pan. The moment her eyes caught sight of Sherlock, she dissolved in a fit of hysteria and started to scream in panic.

Kyrie couldn't keep her lips from curling up into a smile. It was quite funny to see how Sherlock awkwardly tried to calm the poor woman's frayed nerves. Mrs Hudson was shaken to her core and looked completely horrified. When the first shock finally did wear off, she started to cry and laugh at the same time. He got an earful of course, but she'd never been able to stay mad at him for long. In no time at all she practically forced them to go up, to reclaim their territory.

Mrs Hudson set to work. Now that Sherlock and Kyrie were back, there was a lot that needed to be done to make the place inhabitable again.

Sherlock at first wanted to protest when he saw the buckets and cleaning aids getting carried up, but one look from both Kyrie and Mrs Hudson made him shut up. He quickly decided to get out of their way and he disappeared into the shower.

Kyrie and Mrs Hudson diligently started to clean up the place. The flat had been neglected for about two years and was in desperate need of some house keeping. The carpet in the living room was dirty, and the armchairs, the sofa and the top of the tables had been gathering layers of dust and debris. Before long, the flat started to look inhabitable again.

"He hasn't been taking care of himself at all, these past two years," Mrs Hudson suddenly murmured. "Have you seen how skinny he is now? His pants are practically falling from his hips."

A lump of harsh despair grew in her throat when Kyrie realised she had not once paid attention to his physical condition, besides that one moment when she saw the abuse inflicted on his body. But she had not seen past that; she hadn't noticed the signs of malnourishment or his protruding bones.

She had been so consumed by her own sorrow and feeling betrayed, she had not bothered to stop and think what these last two years had been like for him. She had cried for herself, from self-pity because she'd lost him... and now that he was back, the most prevailing emotion she felt was anger. Even now, now that she realised the two past years could not have been easy on Sherlock either... she still felt the sting of what she perceived as his complete betrayal and abandonment.

Kyrie started to tremble as her emotions started to catch up with her. She slammed her hand down on the kitchen counter with such violence that it startled Mrs Hudson. Kyrie hunched over in pain.

"Kyrie, dear? Are you okay?" Mrs Hudson asked her.

"No," she choked out. She didn't object when Mrs Hudson wrapped her arms around her and pulled her against her bosom.

"It's all right, dear. Let it all out... it must have been quite a shock for you too. And I bet he hardly gave you time to think, dragging you along with him all over the place," Mrs Hudson tutted.

The tears rushed to Kyrie's eyes and poured out of her in wrenching sobs. "His death nearly k-killed me, Mrs Hu-Hudson," she sobbed as her body shook with pent up grief that tore itself from her in painful torrents. "I know he suffered on his own, but it hurts... I saw him fall! I heard his bo-body crash against the ground. I saw h-his face and all the-the blood. And it was just a trick! It was a trick! He let me bury him!" Mrs Hudson drew circles on her back and made soothing noises.

Kyrie vaguely heard footsteps approaching. A moment later she noticed through a blur of tears how she gently got turned around by her shoulders. The moment he hauled her against his chest and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close... she knew it was Sherlock and all of her pent-up emotions broke loose.

"I'm sorry," he whispered and Kyrie could hear his voice rumble in his chest as she cried. "I'm so sorry, I couldn't tell you... I couldn't tell _you_... Because, I would have come back. And I couldn't, not before I had rooted out his entire network. Please, forgive me."

Kyrie clung to him and sobbed all over his fresh shirt while he stroked her back with his hand. It took a long, long time before her gut wrenching sobs started to subside.

She still had her face pressed against his chest, his arms were still holding her, when she realised that Sherlock had allowed her to cry against him and let it all out. And he was as allergic to sentiment and emotions as Mycroft was. Well... Mycroft maybe even more so.

Suddenly feeling very self-conscious, Kyrie pulled herself free from his embrace. She wiped at her eyes and sniffed a few times, while avoiding to look him in the eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly.

"No," Kyrie admitted while shaking her head. "But in time, I will be."

She bit her lip and dared a timid look at him. "How about you?" she asked. "You look..." she gestured at his thin body. Even his red dressing gown hung quite loose around him.

"... terrible? Hmm, nothing that can't be cured with your meals and... um... what you did last night. It-it um, felt nice." Sherlock admitted in a quiet voice.

When Kyrie looked up at him she saw a brief look of vulnerability flash through his eyes. He had basically just admitted that he had liked the feel of her hands on his body. Though she had not done so in any kind of romantic context at all, the fact that he was openly admitting he'd enjoyed it, made her mouth run dry as sawdust.

Against her volition, her gaze dropped to his lips and her cheeks warmed. She knew he'd notice... He was Sherlock Holmes, of course he'd notice, he noticed everything! He'd notice the surge of blood to her lips, making them fuller and more inviting, he'd notice the look in her eyes and he probably also picked up on the fact that her heart rate had just spiked.

She wondered... if she would lean in for a kiss, would he pull back? Would he let her? And if he would, would he let her because he wanted it too, or because he felt guilty? She didn't want to, but it was as if a magnet slowly pulled her in. And instead of pulling away, she actually saw him lean in. She slanted her head in anticipation, felt his breath tickle against her skin, his lips about to capture hers...

"Good morning, brother mine... sister dear..." a most unwelcome voice sounded not far from them. "I hope I'm not interrupting... anything important?"

"You need to work on your timing, _brother_ ," Sherlock told Mycroft in a sarcastic tone while he straightened himself up, his face immediately devoid of any emotion.

"Really?" Mycroft asked with a sly smile. "Tell me, was I too late... or too early?"

Kyrie whirled around to face her brother-in-law. In two strides she stood in front of him and instantly slapped him hard across his face. Behind her she heard Sherlock suck in a startled breath of air, right before she forcefully hit Mycroft across the other side of his face with the back of that same hand.

He clutched at his face and stared at her with bulging eyes, his jaw dropped open in shocked surprise. Kyrie turned on her heel and walked back to stand next to Sherlock, she then turned to face Mycroft again with her arms folded and a rigid posture.

"I thought we already did this?" Mycroft whined. "You forgave me!"

"For selling out your own brother," she told him, her face feeling taut with rage and her voice hissing between her teeth. "Not for lying to me for TWO years!"

"Oh... that," Mycroft muttered. "I hoped you'd be too happy with his return to bring that one up."

"If you'd waited a few more moments with your grand entrance, I might have been," she muttered darkly. From the corner of her eyes she noticed Sherlock suspiciously trying to cover up a chuckle with his hand.

"I guess I deserved that one," Mycroft remarked dryly, rubbing at his cheek. "Is it safe for me to sit down? Or can I expect another right hook?"

"It's safe... for now..." Kyrie said, allowing Mycroft to walk past her and take a seat in John's armchair.

"What do you have for me, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked his brother.

"London," Sherlock answered him, while staring intently at the wall behind the sofa. He walked towards the small dinner table and grabbed a stack of papers and pictures.

"Come again?" Mycroft asked confused.

"London... It's like a great cesspool into which all kinds of criminals, agents and drifters are irresistibly drained," Sherlock explained while putting up maps, pictures, notes and other paperwork on the wall.

"Sometimes it's not a question of 'Who?'... It's a question of 'Who Knows?' For example, if this man cancels his papers," he pointed at one of the pictures. "I need to know." He put up a different picture. "If this woman leaves London without putting her dog into kennels, I need to know."

Sherlock put up more pictures and started adding marks to the pictures and the map underneath while scrolling through several texts and messages on his phone. "There are certain people... they are markers. If they start to move, I'll know something's up, like rats deserting a sinking ship."

Sherlock hopped down from the sofa, walked over to the book case on the right and retrieved something from the top shelf. He threw a box on the table between his chair and where Mycroft was sitting. It was a game... 'Operation'.

"What's this?" Mycroft asked.

"A game," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"I can see that... What is your plan?"

"Play a game with you, of course. Or are you afraid you will lose to your little brother?" Sherlock asked with a provoking grin.

Mycroft's eyebrows rose so high, they nearly disappeared from his head. "Bring it on, brother mine," he drawled. Kyrie smiled and turned to put some water on for tea, before she flopped down on the couch, watching the two brothers play the game.

After a few moves that were made in silence, Mycroft suddenly seemed to remember what he was there for.

"All very interesting, Sherlock, but the terror alert has been raised to Critical."

Sherlock sat back from making his move, his eyes never leaving Mycroft's.

"Boring. _Your move_ ," he challenged, chanting the last words a bit.

"We have solid information. An attack is coming," Mycroft said as he glanced down towards the game between them.

"Solid information," Sherlock scoffed. "A secret terrorist organisation's planning an attack, that's what secret terrorist organisations do, isn't it? It's their version of golf."

"An agent gave his life to tell us that," Mycroft replied, his voice slightly tinged with warning.

"Oh, well, perhaps he shouldn't have done. He was obviously just trying to show off," Sherlock said, sounding an awful lot like his old disdainful self again.

"Sherlock, please remember we are talking about a life here. A life that's been snuffed out," Kyrie admonished him.

"Thank you, Kyrie –" Mycroft started.

"That wasn't meant to back you up, Croft," Kyrie bit at him.

"Croft?" Mycroft spluttered. "It's Croft now? What happened to 'My'? Not that 'My' wasn't bloody awful either."

"I used to call you 'My' back when I still liked you. I don't like you now, but your name is still too long... So, 'Croft' it is. Deal with it!"

"It's two bloody syllables! Just like 'Sherlock'! I don't hear you call him 'Sherl' or 'Lock' or something equally ghastly!"

"'Sherlock' rolls off the tongue easier, _Croft_!"

"Brother, can you please do something to curb that wife of yours?" Mycroft sighed in annoyance.

"Me?" Sherlock asked in feigned shock. "Don't look at me, I'm trying to get back in her good graces myself."

"Well, you seemed to be well on your way when I came in."

"You should have entered a bit later then," Sherlock said in a way that made Kyrie's insides feel like jelly.

Mycroft breathed out audibly. "None of these markers of yours is behaving in any way suspiciously?" He briefly glanced down and quickly made his move. "Your move."

"No, Mycroft, but you have to trust me. I'll find the answer. It'll be in an odd phrase in an online blog, or an unexpected trip to the countryside, or a misplaced Lonely Hearts ad." For the briefest of moments, Sherlock glanced down, right before his hand shot out and his swiftly moved his piece. " _Your move,_ " he said lightly.

Mycroft glanced down, before his raised his eyes to Sherlock's again. "I've given the Prime Minister my personal assurance you're on the case," Mycroft told him.

Sherlock frowned a bit before he started to speed-talk. "I am on the case. We're both on the case. Look at us right now."

His flurry of words distracted Mycroft to the point where he messed up his next move. There was an incisive loud buzzing and the red light flashed angrily. Mycroft looked down, appalled. "Oh, bugger!" he muttered. He angrily tossed down the small tweezers of the game.

" _Oopsie_!" Sherlock remarked in a droll voice, looking intently as Mycroft returned the piece he'd failed to remove successfully.

"Can't handle a broken heart. How _very_ telling," Sherlock said. Smug Sherlock was acting smug again, as he sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.

"Don't be smart," Mycroft scoffed.

"Oh, that takes me back," Sherlock mocked. "Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one," he said, altering his voice to sound like a little, snooty boy.

Mycroft glowered at him. "I _am_ the smart one."

"So is Sherlock, Croft!" Kyrie warned him as she brought over tea for Sherlock. "You can fetch your own mug. It's on the kitchen counter."

Sherlock cast a smug look in his brother's direction. Kyrie immediately pulled back the hand with which she was offering the tea. "I swear, Sherlock, one more look like that and I will pour your tea through the kitchen sink!"

Sherlock stuck out his lower lip a bit. "I used to think I was an idiot," he said. Kyrie shook her head and handed him his tea.

"Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock," Mycroft said defensively. "We had nothing else to go on 'til we met other children."

"Oh, yes," Sherlock agreed. " _That_ was a mistake."

"Ghastly," Mycroft concurred. "What _were_ they thinking of?"

"Probably something about trying to make friends," Sherlock said, pondering the thought.

"Oh yes. _Friends,_ " Mycroft said in mild disgust. "Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now."

"Surprisingly, yes, I do," Sherlock admitted before looking closely at his brother. "And you don't? Ever?"

"If _you_ seem slow to me, Sherlock. Can you imagine what _real_ people are like? I'm living in a world of goldfish."

"Goldfish," Sherlock echoed. "Not very flattering, but accurate... I guess. Though, I'm more partial to veil-tail goldfish."

"Really?" Mycroft asked, quirking a brow at his brother after he briefly glanced up at Kyrie, who was standing next to Sherlock. She was cradling a mug of tea in her left hand while her right rested on top of Sherlock's chair, behind his head. She looked from Mycroft to Sherlock and then back again, sensing she was probably missing something.

"Are veil-tails... smarter?" he inquired.

"A goldfish is a goldfish, Mycroft," Sherlock told him. "Even a veil-tail, though they are infinitely more pleasing to look at.

"I thought you didn't care about things like that," Mycroft asked, his voice tinged with bemusement.

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it," Sherlock countered softly. There was a long moment of silence between the two brothers. Sherlock looked at Mycroft, almost defiantly while she saw triumph briefly flicker across Mycroft's features. Kyrie shrugged her shoulders. It was no use trying to understand them anyway.

"I've been away for two years, brother," Sherlock reminded Mycroft.

"So?" Mycroft asked, for once not getting the meaning of his younger brother.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I don't know," he said casually. "I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a... goldfish, maybe even a... veil-tail?"

Mycroft looked thoroughly appalled. "Change the subject, now!" he ordered him and he quickly rose himself from the chair. Mycroft briefly disappeared into the kitchen to retrieve his mug of tea.

"Rest assured, Mycroft," Sherlock told his brother in a pleasant tone. "Whatever this underground network of yours is up to, the secret will reside in something seemingly insignificant or bizarre."

Mrs Hudson suddenly entered the living room, carrying a tray with a tea pot, cups, milk and sugar. "Yoo-hoo!" she said with a broad smile.

"Speaking of which..." Mycroft mumbled. Sherlock smirked and Kyrie looked behind her to find something to throw at her brother-in-law. She smirked. A second later Sherlock's deerstalker flopped against Mycroft's face. He spluttered angrily. Sherlock immediately saw a chance to get rid of the thing, "Keep it, please!" he said.

Mycroft quickly threw it back at her.

"Oh, you already made tea, dear," Mrs Hudson began to talk all happy and cheery, oblivious to the little scene between the other three. "Oh, but you used mugs! Well, here's more tea if you fancy, I'll get some biscuits as well."

She walked over to the small dining table and put town the tray. She turned and smiled affectionately at Sherlock. "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it! Him... Sitting in his chair again!"

Sherlock smiled at her, happy to see _someone_ so joyful about his safe return. Kyrie gently let her fingers glide through his curls to caress his head. A quiet reminder that, even though things were not yet resolved between them, not fully anyway, she _was_ happy that he was back. Sherlock acknowledged her gesture by briefly leaning into her touch.

"Oh, isn't it wonderful, Mr Holmes?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"I can barely contain myself," Mycroft said with fake enthusiasm.

"Oh, he really can, you know," Sherlock said dryly.

"He's secretly pleased to see you underneath all that..." and Mrs Hudson made a pompous face, indicating she meant Mycroft's snooty exterior.

Mycroft looked confused. "Sorry, which of us?" he asked perplexed.

"Both of you!" she said decisively before leaving the room.

"Let's play something different," Sherlock suddenly suggested.

Mycroft sighed in exasperation. "Why are we playing games?" he asked with a long-suffering look plastered on his face.

"Well, London's terror alert has been raised to Critical," Sherlock said while flinging his legs over the small table to stand up. "I'm just passing the time. Let's do deductions." Sherlock walked over to the dining table and picked up a woolly pom pom hat with earflaps. "Client left this while I was out. What d'you reckon?" He flung the ratty looking thing at his brother.

Kyrie quickly settled herself in Sherlock's chair now he was no longer occupying it.

Mycroft catched it involuntary and pulled a face. "I'm busy."

"Oh, go on!" Sherlock tried to persuade him. "It's been an _age_."

Mycroft brought the hat up to his nose for a small whiff, then looked across to Sherlock. "I always win." He reminded his younger brother.

"Which is why you can't resist."

"I find nothing irresistible in the hat of a well-travelled anxious sentimental unfit creature of habit with appalling halitosis..." Mycroft began. He stopped abruptly when he saw Sherlock's face split into a grin.

"Damn," he muttered. Kyrie grinned because Mycroft had fallen for the trap, eyes wide open. He glared at her while he threw the hat back at Sherlock.

"Isolated too, don't you think?" Sherlock asked, looking at his brother.

Mycroft furrowed his brows. "Why would he be isolated?

" _He_?"

"Obviously."

"Why? Size of the hat?" Sherlock inquired.

"Don't be silly. Some women have large heads too," Mycroft told him with a condescending smirk. Kyrie felt the urge to slap him. She began to see why Sherlock had always considered his brother to be somewhat of a pain.

Sherlock looked a bit taken aback at his brother's admonishment. Kyrie didn't feel too concerned. His ego could only benefit from a few sobering bruises.

"No. He's recently had his hair cut. You can see the little hairs adhering to the perspiration stains on the inside." Mycroft pointed out at him.

Sherlock looked at the hat he held in his hands and pouted a bit. "Some women have short hair, too," he said, trying to defend the fact he hadn't caught that little fact.

"Balance of probability," Mycroft drawled.

"Not that you've ever spoken to a woman with short hair," Sherlock grumbled slightly. "Or, you know... a woman."

"I have spoken with plenty of women." Mycroft countered. "Your wife for one. Or, don't you consider her to be... a woman?"

Sherlock scowled at his brother. "She doesn't count," he said quickly.

"Why not?" Mycroft smirked at him. "Kyrie is a woman. A very feminine one at that. Why doesn't _she_ count?"

Kyrie looked at the two brothers with barely veiled interest. They were always like this... As if they were deliberately trying to push each other's buttons.

"Very well." Sherlock conceded with a grin. "You've spoken with two women. My wife... and Mummy... Congratulations! Do you want to count Mrs Hudson as well?"

"Stains show he's out of condition." Mycroft said, ignoring his remark. "And he's sentimental because the hat has been repaired three, four..."

"Five times." Sherlock countered while throwing the had back at his brother. "Very neatly. The cost of the repairs exceeds the cost of the hat, so he's mawkishly attached to it." Sherlock rapidly fired his deduction at Mycroft. "... but it's more than that. One, perhaps two patches would indicate sentimentality, but five? Five's excessive behaviour. Obsessive compulsive," he averred.

"Hardly," Mycroft disagreed with a smile of superiority. "Your client left it behind. What sort of an obsessive compulsive would do that?"

He threw the hat back at his younger sibling, who caught while pulling an annoyed face.

"The earlier patches are extensively sun-bleached, so he's worn it abroad, in Peru."

"Peru?" Sherlock looked surprised at the conclusion.

"This is a Chullo," Mycroft explained, flaunting a bit of his extensive knowledge. "The classic headgear of the Andes. It's made of Alpaca."

"No." Sherlock smirked triumphantly.

"No?"

"Icelandic sheep wool," Sherlock said, flaunting a bit of his own extensive knowledge. Kyrie tried to ignore the fluttering sensation in her stomach. Damn, those quick on the fly deductions still had the power to turn her knees to jelly. She was glad she was already sitting down.

"Similar, but very distinctive _if_ you know what you're looking for. I've written a blog on the varying tensile strengths of different natural fibres."

Kyrie rolled her eyes at Sherlock's cocksure attitude. Thankfully, Mrs Hudson entered the living room bringing biscuits with her. It distracted Kyrie from Sherlock's deductions and his voice.

"I'm sure there's a crying need for that," Mrs Hudson deadpanned before she walked away again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her comment, but otherwise ignored the remark. "You said he was anxious."

"The bobble on the left side has been badly chewed, which shows he's a man of a nervous disposition but..."

"... but also a creature of habit because he hasn't chewed the bobble on the right," Sherlock said, interrupting him. Mycroft looked mildly annoyed as Sherlock took the wind from his sails.

"Precisely." Mycroft agreed with tight smile.

Sherlock lifted the had and took a brief whiff, before instantly moving the hat away from him in disgust. "Brief sniff of the offending bobble tells us everything we need to know about the state of his breath... _Brilliant,_ " Sherlock said in a condescending tone, telling Mycroft exactly how he felt about his 'deduction'.

"Elementary."

"But you've missed his isolation." Sherlock reminded him with a haughty grin.

"I don't see it." Mycroft admitted reluctantly.

"Plain as day."

"Where?"

"There for all to see."

"Tell me."

"Plain as the nose on your..." Sherlock said in a mocking tone.

" _Tell me!_ " Mycroft insisted, sounding quite aggravated.

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes in annoyance, as if Mycroft was cutting this rare moment of victory short. "Well, anybody who wears a hat as stupid as this isn't in the habit of hanging around other people, is he?" He then explained, sounding mildly irritated.

"Not at all." Mycroft disagreed. "Maybe he just doesn't mind being different. He doesn't necessarily have to be isolated."

"Exactly," Sherlock suddenly agreed, looking down at the hat in his hands.

That comment briefly stunned Mycroft into silence. "I'm sorry?" he asked when he found the ability to speak again.

"He's different, so what? Why would he mind?" Sherlock said, again agreeing with Mycroft. "You're quite right."

He suddenly lifted the smelly hat and precariously perched the thing on his head, giving his brother a pointed look. Kyrie grinned at the sight and quickly pulled out her phone.

"Why would anyone... mind?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something witty, but no words seem to come. It made him look like a goldfish, as he himself had compared other people to. It took him a moment before he could manage to say something. "I'm not lonely, Sherlock." He finally managed to say.

Kyrie quickly snapped a shot of Sherlock, looking ridiculous with that hat on.

Sherlock tilted his head and intently stared at his brother as he took a step closer towards him. "How would you know?" he asked turning away, while quickly removing the hat from his head.

Mycroft's eyebrows threatened to leave his face, he raised them that high. "Yes. Back to work if you don't mind. Good morning," he muttered, quickly fleeing the living room.

Kyrie arched a brow at Sherlock. He simply grinned and winked at her. "Right. Back to work," he then said, agreeing with his older brother. He walked back over to the wall and silently looked up at his handiwork; his map, his photographs and the connections while Kyrie curled up in his chair.

"So, how was John?" Kyrie asked casually.

Sherlock didn't answer, he just kept staring at his maps.

Kyrie clenched her teeth. After what he'd put her through, she was not going to accept getting ignored when Sherlock didn't feel like answering a simple question.

"I asked you a question, Sherlock. Least you can do is at least acknowledge the fact I asked you a question."

"It didn't go well, if you must now," he finally said. "John was not exactly pleased to see me."

Kyrie arched a brow when she heard resentment tinge the tone of his voice. "And that surprises you?" she asked.

It took a moment before Sherlock answered. "No, not any more. I understand now that – after two years of thinking I was dead – seeing me alive was... upsetting," he said softly.

"Are you going to talk to him again?" Kyrie asked him.

"No. I tried talking to him. He made his position quite clear."

Kyrie got up and walked over to him. She gently placed a hand on his arm, making him turn his head to look down at her.

"Give it some time, Sherlock. Give _us_ some time... We'll come around? Okay?"

She noticed a nerve pulse in his cheek. "When?" he asked.

Kyrie sighed and briefly leaned her head against his shoulder, before she looked back up at him.

"Sherlock, imagine if we died –"

"No."

"Sherlock, just hear me out. Imagine that _we'd_ died..."

"No!"

Kyrie sighed. Why did he have to be so stubborn? She just wanted to make him understand that this would just take some time.

"I'm _trying_ to make you understand, Sherlock."

"No need. I already did."

"Did what?" she asked him perplexed.

"Imagine that you'd died. I didn't care much for it," he said dryly.

The comment made her want to hug him close to her. But she didn't. He had to learn.

"Sherlock, I understand that. Really I do," she said softly, looking up at him. "But that is what we had to live through for two years. And no one asked us whether we cared for it or not. We had to deal with the loss every single day."

She went to stand on her toes to press a light kiss against his cheek. "Talk to him again, okay?"

He looked down at her with one of those unreadable expressions of his. He lowered his head a bit and Kyrie felt her heart skip a beat, thinking he was leaning in to kiss her. But then he straightened up.

"I was thinking of asking Molly – to accompany me – solving a few crimes," he said.

"Molly?" Kyrie asked confused. "What on earth for?"

"As a thank you. Without her – I wouldn't be standing here right now. She made it all possible, Kyrie."

Kyrie sighed and stepped back from him. "Yeah. Of course. Um, have fun then? I guess?"

She patted him on his arm and went to get her coat, but Sherlock grabbed hold of her arm, causing her to spin right back.

"I know you are still angry with me," he said. "But, do you think you can do that – _thing_ again – you did last night?" He rolled his shoulders back and moved his head to the side. "It was, um, good."

Kyrie cracked a smile at him. "You mean the massage? Behave today, Sherlock, and we'll see."

Sherlock grinned at her, released her arm and winked.

"I'll be at my best behaviour then."

Kyrie snorted at the remark. With her black coat in her hands, she looked at it and decided it was time. Time to don her old coat again... to show Sherlock she was willing to work things out. Kyrie walked to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. She smiled seeing her coat hang next to one of Sherlock's spare ones.

She pulled her burgundy coat out and put it on. She returned back to him while looping her scarf around her neck.

"Later, Sherlock!" she said with a smile and grinned seeing the smug look on his face. She then left him alone with his maps and pictures.


	41. Frozen

**A/N Just because I'm evil. And just because it would otherwise be a very short chapter. I suggest you hold on to something. Preferably a comfy pillow to snuggle.**

SSS

When Kyrie received a text from Janine, she furrowed her brows.

\- Meet me for a drink. Magnussen went nuts! JH

Crap... Her job! Kyrie hadn't called in or anything. On the other hand... Kyrie looked at a newspaper stand she was passing and saw headlines like 'HAT DETECTIVE LIVES!' She smiled seeing her favourite photograph of him, Sherlock wearing the deerstalker, trying to shield as much of his face as possible but unable to hide his annoyance. There was also a picture of her kissing Sherlock squarely on the lips. The photograph that had been taken after that conference. She pressed a hand over her heart. She still couldn't believe... it seemed so unreal! He wasn't dead. He was alive!

And, Magnussen being the media mogul that he was, surely he'd understand she'd been preoccupied with her husband's unexpected resurrection. She had other things on her mind than checking in on work.

When Kyrie met up with Janine in the same pub they'd had drinks not even that long ago, Kyrie immediately noticed something was up.

"Kyrie!" Janine breathed when she noticed Kyrie joining her at the table. "He's gone mad!"

Kyrie laughed a bit awkwardly, not understanding what could have brought this on.

"Janine, I'm sorry I didn't call. I'm sure you know I've had quite a shock to process."

Her friend shook her head furiously. "I understand. You must be thrilled that he's back. But Magnussen!"

"What about him?" Kyrie asked.

"You remember you told me when he'd been summoned before parliamentary?"

"Of course, what about it?"

Janine looked around her and seemed very nervous. "You were right, he's been acting – off – ever since that. But, the moment he learnt – about your husband not being dead?" she whispered. "He... He... had this weird look on his face. And, Kyrie, he told me... You're not coming back. I think he means to fire you, but the _way_ he said... you're not coming back? It was... creepy!"

"What?!" Kyrie cried out. "Can he just do that? I am late one day and I'm immediately to be replaced?"

"I know one thing for sure, he's not afraid of any employment tribunal," Janine hissed. "He had an unexpected business meeting earlier this morning... And, he acted really vague about it. I'm not sure but... Something is off, Kyrie. On top of that, he wants _me_ to fill your shoes! Not sure how I feel about that."

Kyrie grasped the hand of her friend. "You take the promotion, Janine and you keep your eyes and ears open. If the year I worked for him taught me one thing, it's that he's a shady son of a bitch. If he's up to something and Sherlock is involved... I could really use your help. I'm not losing him again, Janine!"

She didn't even touch the drink that was put in front of her. When she got up, she cast a last glance at her friend. "Take care, okay?"

SSS

After that strange meeting with Janine, Kyrie decided to go to her flat. She had no idea how things would evolve now she'd agreed to stay with Sherlock in Baker Street, but it was probably wise to at least start packing some of her stuff. Not that she had a whole lot of stuff to take with her.

She did spend several hours searching for her old scrap book, the one in which she had saved newspaper articles and pictures of Sherlock and John that she'd collected during the time they lived together.

After his 'death' and her move, Kyrie at first wanted to burn the thing but found that she couldn't. She also couldn't stand looking at it because all those articles and pictures just made her heart ache. Now that Sherlock was back, she wanted her scrap book back as well.

In the end, she found it hidden all the way in the back of one of her closets. With a satisfied smile, she walked back to her living room. A quick glance at the time told her she should be heading back to Baker Street soon.

The unexpected sound of footsteps made her look up. She froze when she stared into the leering eyes of Gerulf Schricken. Kyrie tried to stay calm, but she could feel her knees buckling and her body trembling at the sight of him. She breathed slowly, fighting down the nausea and dizziness that assailed her.

"Hello, Kyrie," he said, his voice sardonic. "Bye, Kyrie."

She felt something sharp sting in the right side of her neck. Kyrie turned around, just in time to see another man standing behind her.

She tried to get away from them, but whatever had just been injected in her, was already starting to take effect on her body. Her precious scrapbook dropped from her hands, when she flailed her arms in a feeble attempt to keep herself upright, but she couldn't prevent her legs from collapsing beneath her.

SSS

Kyrie came to, feeling cold licking at her face and creeping under her clothes. She blinked open her eyes, surprised at the sound of her own teeth chattering. She looked up, trying to make sense of her surroundings.

Wherever she was... it was freezing cold! And if the numbness in her fingers was anything to go by, she'd been here for quite some time... When she looked down, she saw stone tiles with a frosty layer. Looking around, she noticed that the room she was in was very small. The ceiling, the walls and door seemed to be made of an insulating material. Stainless steel shelves lined the walls, but they were empty. Four feet LED lights illuminated the small area.

Kyrie felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. She was locked in a tightly sealed, extremely cold, giant metal box. Gerulf... He'd locked her in a freezer!

"Sch-Schricken!" she cried out, trying to keep her chattering teeth from distorting the name too much.

Suddenly the door of the walk-in freezer opened up and Gerulf stepped through a row of thick, plastic curtains, hanging in the doorway.

"Hello my frosty queen," he said, mocking her. "Ooh, it is quite nippy in here! Don't you think?"

"W-what d-do you w-want, Sch-Sch-Schricken?" she asked, as well as she could.

"Well, I used to want you. I even wanted to marry you. But, my affections were unwelcome –"

"Y-you tried to r-rape m-me!" Kyrie tried to convey as much anger as she could muster.

"Details," Gerulf said, shrugging his shoulders. "That first night was, unfortunate, I admit. But after that I only wanted you. But you went out of your way to prevent me from having you. You even went as far as to marry that detective so you were no longer available to me. And Moriarty, he was so convinced he had the answer... 'Just wait, Gerulf. Be patient." Gerulf turned his face to look at her.

"His plan sounded good, in theory. Forcing Sherlock Holmes to commit suicide, so you would be within my reach again. That plan kind of backfired, didn't it? And now... Lo and behold, the Great Sherlock Holmes is back again. Not so dead after all."

Gerulf smiled maliciously. "Unlucky for him, you soon _will_ be. Dead, I mean. I'm a bit of a sore loser, I admit. No, don't look at me like that. Your pretty eyes may have captivated me before, but now they leave me quite... cold. What I want, dear Kyrie? I want you dead. You wouldn't let me have you then – and now – no one ever will."

Kyrie looked up at him, shaking her head, trying to deny what he was telling her. "You are crazy," she whispered. "Completely deranged!"

"I know," he admitted with an uncaring smile. "But, to show you I'm not completely _cold_ _-hearted..._ here..." Gerulf walked closer to her and dropped something in front of her. It was her phone.

"Don't worry, I made sure you can get a signal in here. You can call your husband to say goodbye, but he will not be in time to save you. Quite poetic, I think, that he shall find you dead, right here... It should bring back some memories for him. Only this time... he won't be able to save."

Suddenly he started to laugh. "No, wait. I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm just a bit mean right now, because your husband is otherwise engaged at the moment. Something to do with Guy Fawkes, John and... a bonfire. You see, I have a friend – a very powerful friend – who is just _dying_ to know what makes your husband tick. He is a _very_ interested party. His original plan was to make him choose between you and John. However, I persuaded him to look the other way, so to speak. So, if you want to say your goodbyes, I suggest you give your dear brother-in-law a try."

He looked at her, his eyes roving over her while a vindictive smile curled his lips.

"Better hurry up though. You are still shivering, but that will soon stop. You see, as your core body temperature cools, your heart and liver will produce less heat. See it as a... protective _shut down_ to preserve heat and protect your brain. The colder you get, the harder it will become to breath or even think. Your heart rate will slow down, to the point your heart is barely even beating. And then... it will just stop. Goodbye, my sweet. Forever."

Gerulf exited the walk-in freezer and closed the door behind him.

The cold now numbed her face and extremities. She knew she didn't have much time, before the cold would truly cripple her. Believing Gerulf, she hit the speed dial button to quickly call her brother-in-law.

As she heard the phone making the call, she saw how with each breath more heat rose in little puffs of white vapour, disappearing from her body. The biting cold chilled her fingers into clumsy numbness, as she opened the top buttons of her coat and gently tucked her hands underneath her armpits. She was shivering violently. Cold... so cold! Her teeth chattered like a pneumatic drill.

"Hello, sister dear."

Kyrie wanted to cry when she heard Mycroft's voice. She tried to talk, but the cold had settled deep into her bones and she was starting to lose her sense of time.

"Hello, Kyrie?" Mycroft asked, his voice somewhat edged with worry.

It was hard... to... think... The cold stalked through her, turning her blood to icy sludge. Her muscles were sore. Her entire body started to ache.

"My?" she managed to whisper. "I think... I think I'm going to die."

"What?"

Kyrie would have laughed at the incredulous tone in his voice, if her situation hadn't been so dire.

"Cold. Freezing... I'm... so cold. I think... this is it, for me."

"No. No, no. Where are you, Kyrie? Tell me."

"I-I don't... know."

"That's okay," he said in a soothing voice. "I will use GPS tracking."

The words brought her little comfort. She had no idea how long she'd already been trapped in the freezer. She knew her muscles would soon start to shake uncontrollably while her body would be making a last ditch attempt to reheat before it would concede to the bitterness of the cold.

"KYRIE!"

She blinked hearing the sudden yell close to her. That was Mycroft's voice. She recognised that voice.

"I... forgive you, My... Tell... Sherlock..." she sighed. So hard. To stay awake. "... I forgive him too."

"You can tell that to our faces, Kyrie. Just hang on, I'm on my way."

"Will... will you t-tell h-him, My?"

"Kyrie, shut up. Just shut up. We are coming."

She no longer had the strength to reply. Even blinking her eyes took too much effort. And breathing.

"Get those choppers in the air! Call the police, alert the hospital and call my brother! DO IT NOW!"

Kyrie could vaguely hear her brother-in-law bark a string of orders. He called her name a few times, sounding more frantic every time she did not answer.

 _I forgive you_... she thought, but no words passed her frozen lips.


	42. Return to Addlestone

**A/N Wow, so many awesome reviews to respond to. I know I am just plain evil, but all your reviews made me smile. What greater compliment can an author receive than when they see people care about the characters they created. So, thank you, for caring about Kyrie and her story. Even though I'm just shoving her into the Great Moftiss' Sherlock universe. Thank you all!**

 **Artemis7448 Stay calm, take it easy... Just breaaaathe! Lol, here is another update. I'm glad you liked the latest chapters!**

 **Guest You are welcome for the 3 updates. Hope I didn't shock you too much with the last one. I agree with you, I'm one of those who likes to see a relationship come to full fruition in a story and sex/making love is part of that. So, I'm going to add the scenes but will visibly mark them off. If readers don't like what they read they can look for the cue and skip ahead.**

 **Katt96 I warned you I'm evil. Sorry if I robbed you of too much sleep! I hope you enjoy this update! And don't worry about reviewing too often. Worry about not reviewing enough :D I live for this, I WRITE for this!**

 **EllemichelleP I know, I really AM this evil, just to see what kind of response I would get. It was just an experiment ;-)**

 **AnaBrasil Welcome to this story. It makes me so glad to know you love reading it so far. As for the timing of the updates, that will change the upcoming days. Last week I've been home sick, but tomorrow I have to get back to work again. So, yes, there will be updates, they will just come in the evening (for me) as opposed to sometime in the morning or near lunchtime (for me) as I did the last days. I'm not using Mycroft's POV in this story. But, rest assured, this chapter is all about Sherlock. I hope to see you in the reviews again!**

 **DreamonAlina Your review made me smile. Don't worry about the caps or the length, I love your enthusiasm for my story! I want to make it known, I adore Molly whenever I watch Sherlock. I really thought they would be able to get along in my story but it turns out to be more of a 'mutual forced acceptance'. Sometimes characters, even if you make them up, haven an opinion of their own. You are spot on about Mycroft. She calls him 'My' when she's in a good mood but when he pisses her off it will be 'Croft'. I was gonna write how Mycroft had secretly put a tracker in Kyrie's coat, but I figured tracking her phone would work just as well. I left the coat scene in because I really thought it was a great moment of Kyrie showing Sherlock that they COULD work things out.**

 **Guest I'm sorry! I no I'm really mean and horrible and not at all nice. Here... have a cookie -pats head- and here is an update. Hope you enjoy!**

 **Noface Yes, you are absolutely correct. That paradoxical undressing often happens with the more severe cases of hypothermia. And, exactly for the reason you said, I did not use that step in my story. There will also be no mention of frostbite. It was hard enough to write as it is without having to take that into consideration as well. Just like drowning scenes in tv shows and film, reality is rarely so neat ;-) As to the Gerulf situation. When Gerulf showed no longer any interest towards Kyrie, for Sherlock and Mycroft the threat was over. It's why Kyrie told Sherlock that if they wanted, NOW was the time to get a divorce. Neither of them know that Gerulf is the one responsible for this attack. Especially because John was attacked at the exact same time. Thank you for you review and I hope you keep enjoying this story!**

SSS

Sherlock could hear John wail. Only one thought propelled him forward now. _John_ _is_ _still alive!_ It was not too late to save him. He pulled off his helmet and threw it to the side. Sherlock ran towards the fire, elbowing people and shoving them out of his way, his Belstaff swishing against his legs as he ran.

"Move! Move! Move! Move! Move!" he ordered them. Finally he reached the front of the crowd.

"Help!"

Sherlock could faintly hear John's voice calling out. Sherlock threw himself down and frantically tried to locate John, straining his eyes to look through the flames while throwing some of the wood aside.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, his voice mingling with Mary's as she cried out for John too.

"Help... me!"

Sherlock plunged his arms into the blazing inferno. He threw pieces of the bonfire aside to create an opening. It wasn't big, but it was large enough to be able to reach in. He groped around until his fingers came into contact with John's coat. He instantly grabbed John's arms and hauled him out of his confinement, pulling him away from the flames that eagerly danced around him and away from the smoke that threatened to suffocate him.

The moment Sherlock thought it was safe enough, he rolled John over onto his back. He seemed quite unresponsive and Sherlock felt a flare of panic jolt his nerves. John blinked his eyes.

Sherlock didn't know what to do, so he started patting John's face in an attempt to get him to focus. He could hear Mary silently weeping behind him, crying out John's name.

"Hey, John," he said softly.

He smiled when John gazed up at him, even if he blinked up at him with a blank look in his eyes.

His relief was short-lived when Sherlock noticed a thrumming sound drawing closer. As it got nearer, it became more pronounced. He looked up and saw a helicopter approaching them with whirring blades and a high-pitched whine. He shielded his eyes against the gust of wind as the helicopter started its descend.

"Mr Holmes!"

Sherlock looked up and saw one of Mycroft's men standing close to the opened door.

"I'm here to pick you up on behalf of your brother, sir!" the man yelled at him.

 _Now what?_ Sherlock clenched his teeth together at this rude interruption. "You can tell my brother now is not a good time. I just saved my friend from a rather _heated_ situation," he yelled, not even bothering to try and hide his annoyance.

"Sir, it's your wife. I really think you should stop wasting time... and come with us."

The grave tone in the agents' voice had a rather curious effect on Sherlock's body. It suddenly became hard to breathe and he felt like he had a cotton ball stuck in his throat.

Sherlock slowly turned around to face Mary.

She took one look at him and immediately clamped her hand over her mouth. Whatever was written on his face, it shocked her into complete silence.

"I have, um, I've got to go... Take care of him, for me."

Mary nodded quickly at him. Sherlock turned around. His legs felt like rubber, but he forced his body to comply with him so he could reach the helicopter and get in.

The moment Mycroft's agent helped him get inside, the chopper took off again. The agent helped Sherlock to get strapped into the seat. He was also given a headset that would make it easier to talk. He immediately put it on.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded terribly flat and empty.

"I do not know, sir. I just got orders to retrieve you ASAP and rendezvous at these coordinates." The agent showed Sherlock the information on his phone.

"Addlestone?" he asked in shocked surprise. "Why are we going to Addlestone?"

The agent said nothing and Sherlock wondered what the hell was going on. What did Kyrie have to do with that strip of unused factories? That was where Moriarty had been busy poisoning those two children with those Mercury lined sweet wrappers.

Sherlock opened the door of the helicopter and jumped out before the helicopter completely touched down. He blindly ran towards the factory where he instinctively knew he had to be.

Seeing the large metal box, hooked up to several generators, Sherlock shook his head. His mind was already making deductions, but he did not want to accept them.

When he saw her lying on the floor, a small army of people working on her, he kind of had to. His mind suddenly seemed to come to an abrupt halt. All sound seemed to white out as his feet – almost mechanically – dragged him to where she was lying on the ground.

Just before she got secured in a protective hypothermia wrap, Sherlock caught a brief glance of the state she was in. He staggered on his feet and if Mycroft hadn't stepped towards him, to force him upright, his legs would have buckled beneath him.

Kyrie's face was pale as death, her hair and lashes dusted with tiny frosty particles and her lips had turned blueish. Her eyes were closed but she did not have the appearance of simple sleep. Because, even in deep slumber she made these tiny movements, she uttered these soft sighs and had a healthy glow to her skin. Even though she never had a deep tan, her skin always looked... rosy. But not now.

Looking down at her, he knew at least a tiny flicker of life was still detected within her, or all these people were not so frantically busy trying to save her life. He just couldn't help the cold dread spreading within him, the horrible feeling that he'd already lost her.

The calculating part of his brain was methodically categorising every feeling of fear and despair that flooded his system as he looked on as Kyrie was quickly transferred to a wheeled stretcher.

Her coat was lying discarded on the floor. Sherlock pushed himself away from his brother and stretched his hand toward it, his fingers slowly closing on the cold wool before he pulled it toward him.

The muscles at the base of his throat worked convulsively as he stared blindly at the coat that he now limply held in his hands. The last dying notes of Velvet Orchid drifted towards him and he felt waves of agonizing pain explode throughout his entire body.

No one could claim he was an emotional man. He had maybe cried a handful of times in his life, as far as he could remember at least. That day on the roof, saying goodbye to his best friend and his wife, was one of those sparse few times. And now... tears that he did not shed easily were falling from his eyes.

"She yet lives, Sherlock," Mycroft said softly. "They found a heartbeat. Took them a minute to find it, but it was there. Kyrie will be surrounded by the best of care once she gets to the hospital. We will make sure she survives this, will we not?"

It was a small glimmer of hope. Far more than he had allowed her, and his best friend, he thought wryly. He had just went away for two years. Yes, it had been important and he'd done it because he cared about them and wanted them to be safe. But he'd played _dead_ for two years.

The pain he was now experiencing... he could not imagine having to live with that for two years. And that's exactly what he had put John through, and Kyrie. He tilted his head back and he closed his eyes. He now understood the pain he had caused the two people that mattered the most to him.

"I um, called Mummy and Daddy... They will be coming to the Royal Brompton instead of going over to your place. I guess attending Les Mis as our little familial celebration of your return will have to be postponed. Will you go to the hospital as well?"

Sherlock nodded his head. "I want to check in on her, before I head back... I still have to find your terrorist cell."

Mycroft arched a brow at him. "Survival rates with normal mental functioning have been reported at around 50 percent. I thought you'd want to stick around for a bit."

"I don't care about survival rates," Sherlock said through clenched teeth. "There's nothing I can do in the hospital anyway. My being there will not help her heal faster," he said bitterly.

"Then let's go. If Kyrie wakes up, I want to be able to tell her you at least visited once."

"When."

"Sorry, what?" Mycroft asked, not understanding.

" _When_ Kyrie wakes up... You said _if_."

Mycroft looked away from him and nodded almost imperceptibly. "Of course."

SSS

The long wait was excruciating. Especially because they were just left stranded in a small area in the hospital with seats where they could wait. Sherlock was staring out of one of the windows. He refused to sit himself down in one of those seats.

Mycroft did sit down, crossing his legs. Sherlock noticed how he involuntary clenched and unclenched his fingers around his infernal umbrella. He'd never seen his brother in this much distress. Could it be that Kyrie had managed to burrow herself a little spot in that shrivelled old prune that was his heart?

Sherlock tried to maintain an impassive look himself. However, he knew that just as Mycroft betrayed himself to his younger brother, he in some way or other was betraying himself to Mycroft.

All they knew it this point, was that Kyrie had been transferred straight to the operating theatre. The nurse who had informed them what was going to happen, had been a bit more eloquent, but she'd been using a lot of medical jargon that Sherlock for the life of him couldn't remember. He was curious to find out if Mycroft knew.

"What did the nurse say again?" Sherlock asked.

"I've told you six times already, Sherlock," his brother replied in a bored tone. "I doubt that me explaining it a seventh time will help you remember."

"Humour me," Sherlock insisted.

"Fine... She's in the operating theatre where arterial-venous ECMO, through femoral vessels with extra-arterial return cannula, is surgically implanted. To put it simply, they are trying to bring up her core temperature by extra-corporeal rewarming. They are warming her back up. That's all you need to remember."

"We've been here for well over an hour. How long does it take?"

"As long as it takes, apparently."

Sherlock scoffed at the answer. He then sighed in exasperation when he heard a familiar set of footsteps approaching them at an alarming rate.

"What have they done? Oh, what have they done?"

Sherlock barely had time to share a brief look of silent suffering with his brother, before his mother crushed her arms around him.

"How are you holding up, dear?" she asked him, pressing her head against his shoulder.

"I'm not the one currently in surgery, Mummy," he replied dryly.

"What happened?" His mother pulled back from him, still holding on to his arms, looking up at him with that questioning gaze of hers.

"We don't know exactly..." he started.

"... but we get the gist of it," Mycroft finished for him.

"I'm surprised to see you here, Myc," their mother said, taking a seat next to her eldest son.

Sherlock smirked a bit, seeing the brief look of annoyance crossing his brother's face when hearing the abbreviation of his name.

"Of course I'm here. It was me she called first after all."

"Well, you're usually not one who hovers around."

"Neither is Sherlock, Mummy," Myrcroft said with a small smile.

"Well, this is Kyrie we're talking about," Daddy piped in, "Of course he is hovering _now_."

"Exactly," Mycroft said and didn't deem it necessary to elaborate further.

"So, tell us," Mummy asked, "What happened? You were very unclear on the phone, Myc," she said, scolding her eldest son a bit.

"Well, I was a bit pre-occupied at the time, Mummy. Trying to orchestrate Kyrie's rescue and all that," Mycroft said, smiling wryly.

"She was stuck in a freezer," Sherlock said in a bitter tone.

Her eyes went wide with shock. "What?"

"Someone rigged up a walk-in freezer in an abandoned factory, and put her _in_ it."

His mother looked at him with a look of utter horror on her face. Her mouth opened and shut as if she tried to say something, but the words got stuck in her throat.

"Who...?" she finally managed to say. "Who... would do such a thing?" she whispered.

"Maybe the same person who tried to kill John tonight," Sherlock mused, ignoring the shocked surprise on his brother's face.

"What's this? You didn't tell me anything about that!" Mycroft said.

"I was a bit pre-occupied, trying to orchestrate his rescue and all that," Sherlock tried to be droll, but it fell a bit short. "And then I suddenly learn that..." He shook his head. He did not want to remember.

"John was trapped under a bonfire, I managed to get him out in time though. Your man was able to find me. How did he know where to look if you didn't even know where I was?"

Mycroft scoffed. "When you didn't answer my call and you also weren't at that dump you call a home, I told him to look for any suspicious disruptions. You never were one for a quiet evening."

The four of them looked up when a doctor approached them. "Mr Holmes?" the doctor immediately directed his attention towards Sherlock. When Sherlock turned his attention to the doctor, he promptly started an explanation that no human could hope to understand, unless they had extensive understanding of the medical field. Ah, where was John when you actually needed him for once?

"On admission, your wife was deeply hypotensive and in need of vasoactive drugs support. We found signs of acidosis and high lactate levels, as well as persistent hypoglycaemia. We succeeded in rewarming her back to normothermia, but ECMO is not yet terminated."

Sherlock stared at the doctor with a blank look on his face. All these words meant nothing to him and told him nothing about what he wanted to know... How she was doing.

"She's alive. Will she... recover?" Sherlock asked, unable to keep some of the anxiety he was feeling from seeping into his voice.

"Only time will tell, Mr Holmes," the doctor told him in blunt honesty. Now that at least was something Sherlock could appreciate. He did not like unnecessary trivialities.

"The ECMO still serves as respiratory support. We will keep a close eye on her. In the following 24 hours, the set cardiac output will gradually be reduced. If she responds well then ECMO will – hopefully – be terminated successfully. She will remain on conventional mechanical ventilation and in two days she will be examined by our neurologist. You can see her now, only you I'm afraid, and very briefly."

Sherlock looked back at his parents and his brother. They nodded gravely at him. He turned back to the doctor and followed him to where they were keeping Kyrie.

Outside of the room, he saw her lying in a hospital bed through the window and he realised he didn't want to go in there. He stepped back. He did not want to see her, up close, looking so fragile, hooked up to that big machine, with all those tubes entering her body... through her nose, her mouth, up her leg...

"If you want to go in, you need to wear these..."

Sherlock turned to face the doctor. He was holding up some hospital scrubs.

"Take good care of her," he ordered the doctor, before he turned on his heel and left that horrid place.


	43. Gunpowder, Treason and Plot

**A/N Fine, one more update today and then... starting tomorrow... just one update a day again. I won't be able to do more because I need to stay ahead with the writing so I can keep up with the daily updates.**

 **DreamonAlina Remember, this is Sherlock. He hates hospitals and is not one for holding hands. Ordering the doctor to take care of her was the best he could do with the situation.**

 **Guest Sherlock won't be getting any backrubs for a while. To be fair, they don't know how Kyrie's doing either. And, sorry... even in this update... you still won't know. That would be the next update xD**

 **Guest I think your last review is incomplete, but I think the gist of it is that you liked the chapter. So thank you :-) I glad you liked how I wrote Sherlock's response.**

 **Artemis7448 Man you guys are a hard bunch to please! ;-) We now see John's response + he meets Sherlock's parents.**

 **Princelivy Don't worry, I'm not abandoning this story. I'm currently writing 'His Last Vow'. So 1 episode and a bit ahead of you. That used to be 2 episodes ahead but people keep asking for more :-P Ugh, I know what you mean with sappy and romantic Sherlock. I've encountered too many stories that start off well and then boom... the moment the romance sets in, they might just as well change his name to Happy-go-lucky doo da because they no longer write about 'Sherlock'.**

 **Katt96 Ugh I need my sleep or I don't function at work! Hope you like this update! Let me know!**

 **SSS**

The next day, Sherlock found himself sitting in his armchair. He had his eyes closed and he sighed quietly while occasionally drumming his fingers on the arms of the chair while his mother just droned on an on.

 _They_ had followed him home under the pretence of offering him moral support. As if they could... Also, when he'd made it clear he did not want to sit around and bemoan what had happened to Kyrie, his mother's idea of 'moral support' seemed to be an aberrant amount of 'small talk', designed to keep his mind from... wandering.

"... which wasn't the way I'd put it at all. Silly woman. Anyway, it was then that I first noticed it was missing. I said, 'Have you checked down the back of the sofa?' It couldn't have just vanished, now could it?"

Sherlock breathed deeply. When would she just stop? He hardly had any sleep lately. The one night of good sleep he'd had was when... No... he didn't want to remember that. It would make him think of that moment she was straddling him. And that would make him think to when her hands were roaming his body, gently relieving his muscles of the pent up stress and tension. It would make him think of that moment he woke up, when he found his entire body again to be completely entwined with hers.

Since all thoughts of her would eventually lead back to that moment in the abandoned factory and later in the hospital, he just wanted to shove her from his mind entirely.

He breathed deeply again. So tired. He barely noticed when his head started to slump a bit, but he definitely noticed when his head jerked back up again. He steepled his fingers in front of his face.

"He's always losing things down the back of the sofa, aren't you, dear?" Mummy asked Daddy.

"Fraid so."

What had she been going on about again? Something about... a lottery ticket?

"Keys, small change, sweeties. Especially his glasses," Mummy said at the same time Daddy too said 'glasses'.

"Blooming things. I said, 'Why don't you get a chain – wear 'em round your neck?' And he says, 'What – like Larry Grayson?'" Mummy chuckled when Daddy again almost simultaneously said 'Larry Grayson'.

Okay, he had to put a stop to this. He knew they were worried about Kyrie. He knew they meant well and merely tried to distract him, but they were driving him insane!

The only thing that would keep his mind off all those tubes sticking down Kyrie's throat, that horrible image of her frozen skin and lips... was engaging his mind with the case that Mycroft had given him.

He quickly rose to his feet and buttoned his jacket as he walked over towards his parents.

"So, did you find it eventually, your lottery ticket?" he asked them with about as much interest as he could muster. Which was none. He carelessly stepped onto the coffee table and from there onto the sofa, right between his parents.

Mummy leaned to the side to not be in his way as Daddy looked up at him as he tried to find a pattern. There had to be a pattern. It was hidden somewhere... here... right in front of him! He idly flicked through the paperwork he'd stuck to the wall.

"Well, yes, thank goodness. We caught the coach on time after all. We managed to see, er, St Paul's, the Tower... but they weren't letting anyone in to Parliament."

Sherlock looked down at his mother.

"Some big debate going on," she explained. "Of course, that was before we even knew about..."

She quickly stopped when Sherlock frowned at her.

At that moment, the door to the living room opened and John walked in. Sherlock couldn't keep the look of surprise from his face. Not exactly the person he'd expected to show up.

"John!" he called out, in pleasant surprise.

His friend, former friend, hopefully soon to be his friend again, looked over towards the sofa and his parents seated on it.

"Sorry – you're busy," he stated.

"Er, no-no-no," he quickly said, hoisting Mummy to her feet. "They were just leaving."

"Oh, were we?" she asked perplexed.

" _Ye-es_ ," Sherlock lingered on the word. He was tired of them smothering and coddling him with their worry and caring. He could stand no more of that. They had to go, now!

"No, no. If you've got a case," John said as equally perplexed as Mummy.

"No, not a case. No-no-no," Sherlock countered with a placating smile. He turned to face his mother and widened his eyes at her. "Go. 'Bye!"

"Yeah, well. We'll meet in two days then. The neurologist. Remember!"

"Yes, great, wonderful. Just get out," he said while herding his parents towards the door. Not that there was anything wonderful about Kyrie tethering on the brink of death, but at the moment he'd say anything to get rid of his parents.

"Well, give us a ring when you learn anything else..."

"Of course I will, yes, good. Get out!"

Sherlock practically shoved his parents outside, but the moment he tried to shut the door, Mummy stuck her heavy shoe into the door way, effectively preventing him from slamming the door shut. Sherlock sighed and pulled the door back open, just a little, to stare at her foot, blocking the way.

"I haven't even gotten a chance... to tell you how glad we are, Sherlock. All that time people thinking the worst of you. And poor Kyrie, she was so miserable with you gone," she whispered.

Sherlock nervously glanced back at John who'd walked over to the window. He discreetly kept his back turned towards them.

"We're just so pleased it's all over. It was Hell, having to lie to her for all this time. We knew and saw her suffer and couldn't tell. We have a lot to make up for, when she recovers."

Sherlock looked up with a wan smile. He was glad his mother said 'when' not 'if'.

"I know," he said quietly. "So have I. Thanks for saying... _when_."

"Of course, dear. She will recover. And I'm glad you realise you have some making up of your own to do. We will see you in two days, at Brompton's."

"Yes, two days, Brompton's," Sherlock echoed and again he tied to slam the door, but Mummy refused to budge.

"Ring up more often, won't you?" Daddy said.

"Mm-hm," Sherlock mumbled quickly.

"She worries, you know."

"Well, not so much with Kyrie around, taking care of him. But it would be nice to hear your voice more often, and not just hers. Do you think... do you need help with her, when she's fit to return back home?"

"Certainly not!"

"Oh," Mummy said, looking quite disappointed. "Well, promise then."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but whispered, "Promise," anyway.

His mother smiled up at him and reached up her hand to gently stroke his cheek.

"Oh, for God...!" he pushed his mother back and quickly shoved the door closed behind her. He heaved a deep sigh of relief before he turned to John.

"Sorry about that."

"No, it's fine," John waved his concerns away. "Clients?"

"... Just my parents," Sherlock explained after he briefly paused to find to correct words.

"Your parents?" John asked surprised.

"In town for a few days," Sherlock said quietly.

" _Your_ parents?"

"Mycroft thought it would be nice to celebrate my return and he organised a familial get-together and purchased five tickets for a matinee of 'Les Mis.' Tried to talk me into going as well. Waste of his money right there. Especially since none of us are now..." he shook his head.

"Those were your parents?" John asked again and he walked over to the window to look out, probably to see if he could still catch a glance of them.

"Yes."

"Well..." John started to chuckle and Sherlock furrowed his brows. What was so funny?

" _That_ is not what I..." he stopped to look back out of the window again.

Sherlock heard a taxi, hopefully the one with his parents in it, pulling away. "What?" he asked.

"I-I mean they're just... so..."

Sherlock fixed his gaze at him. He slightly narrowed his eyes, silently daring John to continue.

"... ordinary," John finished with a smile.

Sherlock tutted deprecatory, "It's a cross I have to bear."

John chuckled and took a few tentative steps across the room. Sherlock smiled slightly. It was good to see his friend a bit more – normal – and less angry with him. John looked around the room as if he was trying to recapture the time that had gone by. He suddenly stopped and turned back to look at him.

"Did they know, too?"

Sherlock couldn't meet his eyes and pretended to act dumb. "Hmm?" he asked.

"That you spent the last two years playing hide and seek."

Sherlock leaned over to brush an imaginary piece of fluff away from the keyboard of his laptop. He still had it open on the dining table and it was showing a website with information about ECMO.

"Maybe," Sherlock admitted quietly.

"Ah! So _that's_ why they weren't at the funeral! And Kyrie? They didn't even tell her? All those months she lived with them?"

"Sorry. Sorry again! It was necessary," Sherlock said defensively. The brief image of Kyrie's face... deathly pale, her hair and lashes dusted with delicate snow and her lips turned blue... it suddenly flashed through his mind. It brought with it the lingering feel of the dread and cold despair he felt when he thought he'd lost her. That gnawing feeling that wouldn't leave him alone because he realised all too well he still _could_ lose her. That pain... it made him humbly lower his head.

"Sorry," he said again. He said it very softly, but that one word conveyed all of his regret.

John drew in a deep breath before he met his eyes. He quickly looked away again while slowly releasing his breath.

"So, you've shaved it off, then."

"Yeah. Wasn't working for me."

"Mm, I'm glad."

"What, you didn't like it?" John asked as he walked across the room again. He stopped in front of his old armchair.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and smiled. Finally, a sense of normalcy seemed to be returning. Now he just needed the rest to return to normal too. Meaning... Kyrie back at his side.

"No. I prefer my doctors clean-shaven."

"That's not a sentence you hear every day!" John said and he grunted a bit as he lowered himself down to sit in the armchair. Sherlock took in his appearance and noted several cuts on the side of his head. Probably where twigs and other foliage scratched him while he was trapped under the bonfire. They seemed to be healing quite nicely. Now he just needed Kyrie to heal too. He briefly closed his eyes at the thought.

"How are you feeling?"

"Yeah, not bad. Bit... _smoked_."

"Right."

John looked around the room and drummed his fingers against the armchair. Sherlock carefully walked over towards his own chair and sat down.

John looked up at him. "So, where is she then? Is she still angry with you? Did she – kick you out, told you to take a hike? She's not here – so – something happened. Something to do with the fact you got a little helicopter ride last night?"

Sherlock briefly licked his lips. "She was um, something between ecstatic and absolutely murderous, when I visited her."

John grinned at the thought, but his face turned serious when he noticed Sherlock wasn't smiling too.

"Sherlock? What... happened?"

"You – weren't the only one who got targeted, last night, John," he managed to say in a raspy voice. He realised that for someone who hated useless trivialities, he sure had problems to get to the point himself. He smiled a bit shakily at the thought.

"Sherlock... Please, don't make me ask again," John said in a careful measured tone. "What happened and where... where is Kyrie?"

"In Brompton's," Sherlock admitted softly.

"Brompton's? You mean – The Royal Brompton Hospital?"

"Yes."

"For fuck's sake!" John swore. "Start talking, Sherlock! Now!"

"It was right after I pulled you from the bonfire. Mycroft's men picked me up. They brought me to – that abandoned factory. Where we found..."

"Claudette and Max?"

"Yes, them. I um, Mycroft was there, too. She – I mean, Kyrie. She'd called him..." Sherlock had trouble to put into words what had happened to her. As long as he didn't think about it, didn't talk about it, he could pretend it wasn't real.

"Well?" John prodded impatiently.

"Someone rigged up a walk-in freezer in that factory. They trapped Kyrie inside. By the time Mycroft found her and his team – managed to free her – her core body temperature had already dropped to a dangerously low level."

John stared at him with a slack jaw. "Mm?" That was all he managed to get out.

"She's in the hospital. They used some... machine... to warm her blood before..."

"You mean... extra-corporeal rewarming?"

Sherlock nodded at him and John swore.

"Is – is she going to, you know – make it?"

"I know that, um, they managed to return her body temperature back to normal. Other than that, I – I don't know. Um, a neurologist is going to examine her in two days."

They were quiet for a while.

"I can't believe this," John furiously slammed his arm rest. "I can't fucking believe this!"

His outburst startled Sherlock.

"Who would do this, Sherlock? Hmm? Last night? Why did they target _us_? Both of us? At the exact same time?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said.

"Is it someone trying to get to you through _us_? Is it something to do with this terrorist thing you talked about?"

"I don't know..." Sherlock sighed. "I can't see the pattern. It's too – nebulous."

He rose to his feet and walked towards his wall of information. "Why would an agent give his life to tell us something incredibly insignificant? That's what's strange."

" _Give his life_?" John repeated him. "You mean someone actually did die?"

Sherlock forced himself to return to his detached thinking mode. It was familiar, it was safer and allowed him to 'not' have to deal with other... stuff.

"Yes. According to Mycroft," he told John. "There's an underground network planning an attack on London... that's all we know."

He got momentarily distracted when the random image of dust falling down from a ceiling crossed his mind. Underground network. Those words triggered the image. But what was it's significance?

He thought back to that previous afternoon. He'd taken Molly with him, to solve a mystery. A mystery that turned out to not be a mystery after all. The skeleton in the room. The book 'How I did it' by Jack the Ripper... He had a few notions about who could have staged that scene. But why was he now thinking back to that moment dust had trickled down from the ceiling?

He shook his head and then spread his hands in a grand gesture at his wall of information.

"These are my rats, John," he explained.

"Rats?" John asked, not quite getting his meaning.

"My markers. Agents, lowlifes, people who might find themselves arrested or their diplomatic immunity suddenly rescinded," Sherlock said. He audibly drew in some air. "If one of them starts acting suspiciously, we know something's up. Five of them are behaving perfectly normally, but the sixth…"

John, from the comfort of his seat, pointed towards the very picture Sherlock talking about. "I know him, don't I?"

"Lord Moran." Sherlock directed his full attention to the man's picture, pointed at it as he summarised what he knew about the man. "Peer of the realm, Minister for Overseas Development. Pillar of the establishment."

"Yes!"

"He's been working for North Korea since 1996," Sherlock said with a tight smile as he glanced at John over his shoulder.

"What?"

"He's the Big Rat. Rat Number One. And he's just done something _very_ suspicious indeed.

Sherlock walked over to his laptop and motioned John to have a look. John grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. He took off his coat before he went to sit at the dining table. He drew in a sharp breath of air when he noticed the web page that Sherlock had looked up earlier. Sherlock quickly clicked it away.

"When can she receive visitors, Sherlock?" John asked him softly.

"I don't know yet," he said quietly. "I'll let you know when I... know more."

John clenched his jaw and nodded at him, as Sherlock quickly pulled up the footage that his bobble hat client had forwarded to him. The client he'd visited with Molly while Kyrie was slowly freezing to death.

He shook his head and willed the image away. No. Kyrie was still alive. She was in the hospital and she was being looked after. There was nothing he could do and allowing his mind to keep wandering back to her, would not make her heal any faster. Sherlock promptly hit the play button and showed John the footage of the mysterious Tube train disappearance.

"Yeah, that's... odd. There's nowhere he could have got off?"

"Not according to the maps.

"Mm."

"There's something – something, _something_ I'm missing, something staring me in the face," Sherlock said, getting aggravated. He walked back to look at his wall of information when his phone chimed. He took it from his pocket and checked what he had received.

"Any idea who they are – this underground network?"

Sherlock was looking at a sequence of pictures taken of Lord Moran. Apparently, he'd just come up from the Westminster Tube station.

Intelligence must have a – a list of the most obvious ones," John mumbled, his gaze still fixed to the laptop.

"Our rat's just come out of his den," Sherlock said softly.

"Al-Qaeda; the IRA have been getting restless again – maybe they're gonna make an appearance..." John rambled on.

Suddenly it all connected in Sherlock's head, the moment John mentioned Intelligence. His good old trustworthy conductor of light! "Yes, yes, yes, yes, YES!" he cried out. "I've been an idiot – a _blind_ idiot!" He was getting a bit overly excited now that he knew, now that he understood.

"What?" John asked. He was lost again.

Sherlock started pacing across the room. "Oh, that's good. That could be _brilliant_."

"What are you on about?"

"Mycroft's intelligence – it's not nebulous at all. It's specific – _incredibly_ specific.

" _What_ do you mean?!" John raised his voice to draw his attention.

"Not an underground network, John. It's an _Underground_ _network_.

"Right... What?" John was, again, lost.

"Sometimes a deception is so audacious, so outrageous that you can't see it even when it's staring you in the face," Sherlock explained as he walked back over to John. He clicked a button to start replaying the footage.

"Look, seven carriages leave Westminster..." He waited till the footage switched to show the next station. "... but only _six_ carriages arrive at St James's Park."

John stared at the footage and blinked a few times. "But that's... I mean... it's – it's impossible."

"Moran didn't disappear – the _entire_ Tube compartment did. The driver must have diverted the train and then detached the last carriage."

"Detached it _where_?!" John said with chuckle that conveyed the trouble he had wrapping his head around this one. "You said there was nothing between those stations."

"Not on the maps, but, remember what I told you once in Dartmoor – once you eliminate all the other factors, the only thing remaining _must_ be the truth."

"That carriage vanished," Sherlock said and he jabbed his finger at the screen. "So it must be somewhere."

"But why, though? Why detach it in the first place?"

Sherlock started pacing across the room, his hands twitching as if he tried to summon up the knowledge at his fingertips. "It vanishes between St James's Park and Westminster. Lord Moran vanishes. Kyrie is kidnapped and stuck into a freezer while at the same time you're kidnapped and nearly burned to death at a fireworks part..."

He stopped talking abruptly and looked up. He got it. The final piece of the puzzle. Almost the final piece of the puzzle... There was one little thing that still eluded him, but that could wait.

"What's the date, John – today's date?" Sherlock asked softly.

"Hmm? November the... My God." He sighed when he too understood the implication.

Sherlock slowly walked over to his wall of information. "Lord Moran – he's a peer of the realm. Normally he'd sit in the House. Tonight there's an all-night sitting to vote on the new anti-terrorism bill."

He stopped in front of the sofa. "But he won't be there. Not tonight," he said, curling up his lips into a slight smile as he turned to look down at John. "Not the fifth of November."

"Remember, remember," John said quietly.

"Gunpowder, treason and plot."

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up at his friend and noticed how anger was twisting his features.

"Promise me..." John swallowed hard. "Promise me that... whatever sick bastard did this... They'll pay?"

"I think I can safely promise you that."


	44. The Turning of Leaves

**A/N This chapter was edited 2/26/2018 to answer a question. Katt96, Kyrie is pronounced like the 'Kyrie eleison'. If you look up the and search for 'kyrie' you should find the 'kyrie eleison' entry and you can click on it to hear how it's pronounced. It's also the reason why Kyrie's maiden name is Ellison ;-)**

 **I think, in a way, this is a chapter that many of you have been waiting for. No Kyrie yet (Sorry!) but something almost as good. And it will only get better from here on out with fun and fluff until, of course, we get to 'His Final Vow'. Happy reading!**

 **Guest Thank you so much for the compliment. It humbles me! I love writing the John and Sherlock scenes. It's a great adventure to have Kyrie be part of their lines and thoughts even when she isn't there.**

 **Artemis7448 Yes I did change that coat chapter. It was too good of a suggestion to pass up on :-) I'm glad you are happy with how John responded. I particularly loved the 'Mm?' bit myself. He's so shocked he can't even say anything else.**

 **Guest Yeah I thought it was something along those lines! Don't worry, Sherlock will not be shouting ballads... At all. Dancing a tango... now that's something you might see him do. And then of course right after he gets really awkward about it :) And don't worry, even Sherlock will pay Kyrie a visit in the hospital!**

 **EllemichelleP Sherlock IS rude. Didn't you know this by now? :-) I just couldn't write him all sappy and lovey and holding hands. In my opinion that's just not something he would do.**

 **Katt96 Yes, they are working together again! Yay!**

 **DreamonAlina I'm glad you like the friendships between these 3 and that you loved John's response to Kyrie being in the hospital. Kyrie will be returning next chapter. I hope this will tie you over till then!**

 **Noface Don't worry, you didn't come across that way at all. Just wanted to let you in on my thought process why I didn't put Kyrie through that last step of hypothermia. Also, since Gerulf is basically my MacGuffin, he is just there to deepen their relationship. He will get his in the end. Not sure how yet, haven't written that far and I didn't want to ruin 'the sign of three' with him. So that will probably go down in 'His Last Vow'.**

SSS

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, holding a drink in his left hand and his phone in his right. A lazy smile curled on his lips. He looked at the text he was about to send, his thumb hovering over the send button. It could be very premature, to send this. After all, he had no idea how things would... unfurl. But, hope was a good place to start and this message, this message represented hope. He hit 'send' and looked at his text again.

\- Need your advice. SH

As he waited for a reply that he knew would soon come, he briefly let his mind wander back to the harrowing events earlier that evening.

" _Why d'you think **I** know what to do?"_

" _Because you're Sherlock Holmes. You're as clever as it gets."_

Sherlock smiled thinking back to that little tiff, when they still believed they were about to die in a bomb explosion.

" _Doesn't mean I know how to defuse a giant bomb. What about you?"_

" _I wasn't in bomb disposal. I'm a bloody doctor."_

 _Sherlock briefly pointed his torch at him, making John blink against the light._

" _And a soldier, as you keep reminding us all!"_

A female erotic moan distracted Sherlock from the memory. He quickly glanced at the text before sending a swift reply.

\- What for?

\- Getting the girl. SH

He sighed. There. There it was. Out in the open. His wish. It was... completely unknown territory for him and he didn't know if he was making the right decision. What he did know was that he could not allow Kyrie to quietly disappear from his life. Now that death was still lurking around the corner, much too close for his comfort, he realised he did not want to lose her at all. Not to death and certainly not to life.

" _Mind Palace," John ordered him._

" _Hmm?"_

" _Use your 'Mind Palace'," John said, his voice insistent._

" _How will that help?" he asked in exasperation._

" _You've salted away every fact under the sun!"_

" _Oh, and you think I've just got 'How To Defuse A Bomb' tucked away in there somewhere?"_

" _Yes!"_

Another erotic moan alerted him to an incoming text.

\- I thought you already had the girl?

\- Not sure. How can I tell? SH

 _He brought his fingers to the sides of his face and squinted his eyes. John was not making the process any easier by constantly ordering him to think. He knew it was no use. He tried of course, but there was too little time to go through his 'Mind Palace' and find that obscure bit of information. And he didn't have Kyrie around to help him with a boost. 'Cause Kyrie was in the hospital, fighting for her life._

 _Even thinking back to their kiss did not help him to find the answer. All it did was make him think back to the other times they'd kissed. The kiss to fool Gerulf, his attempt to make Kyrie turn back to her lovely and vibrant self, that heated kiss in Dartmoor when he was no longer held back by his own reservations._

 _He groaned, trying to force his synapses to spark at the same speed they did when he was really kissing her. But the memory proved to be too pale of a reflection. He cried out and opened his eyes to look up at John._

" _Oh my God!" John breathed when he realised Sherlock would not offer an answer in this situation._

Another erotic moan.

\- Kiss her. And not just to boost your Mind Palace. KISS her!

\- When? SH

\- I'm sure you will find a moment

" _Forgive me?"_

" _What?"_

 _Sherlock brought up his hands. He was begging. "Please, John, forgive me... for all the hurt that I caused you. I can never make things right with Kyrie again. At least I can ask you."_

 _John shook his head and waved a finger at him. "No, no, no, no, no, no. This is a trick."_

" _No."_

Sherlock sent another reply.

\- Then what? SH

 _John gripped one of the handrails and looked away, unable to look at Sherlock. He stomped his foot against the floor in helpless fury. "I wanted you not to be dead," John said, his voice low and tinged with a savage edge. " **We** wanted you not to be dead."_

" _Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for."_

An erotic moan signalled he received a reply.

\- Then you invite her for dinner

Sherlock stared at the reply. Dinner... He didn't even know how to... cook. Well, he knew the basics of course. But, if he was going to have... dinner... with Kyrie, then he wanted to treat her to a fancy meal, not some quickly slapped together dish that he would probably manage to burn. He pondered how to ask his next question and felt his cheeks flush.

\- What would she like... for dinner? SH

" _You were the best and the wisest man..." John sniffed a bit. "... that I have ever known."_

 _Sherlock looked up at him. Surprised at the words coming from his best friends' mouth. His eyes welled up with tears._

" _Yes, of course I forgive you," John finally said those words of redemption. "I can't believe you are doing this to her again," he mumbled. "And this time for real. Can't believe I'm doing this to Mary." He then closed his eyes and waited for the blast, accepting his fate._

Sherlock was glad that John was home, safe with Mary, when he received another text.

\- Well...

This time he also received a few links and Sherlock nearly felt his eyes pop from their sockets when he checked out a few of them. He swallowed hard. What had he gotten himself into? Though his mind screeched in protest, his body responded with giddy anticipation.

 _Sherlock turned his head away, he couldn't keep up the farce any longer. When he looked back at John, he was hooting with laughter. John opened his eyes and Sherlock couldn't contain his giggles of high-pitched hilarity. When John moved in to have a closer look at the bomb, he noticed the countdown was stuck, flicking back and forth between 1:28 and 1:29, and the little switch to the side of the device._

" _You cock! I knew it! I knew it! You f..._

" _Oh, those things you said – such sweet things! I – I never knew you cared!"_

 _John glared at him. "I will kill you if you ever breathe a word of this..."_

 _Sherlock grinned at him, holding up two fingers. "Scout's honour."_

" _...to anyone. You KNEW!"_

\- And this will work? SH

\- Oh, hell yes!

 _Sherlock chuckled, wiping the tears of his cheeks. Suddenly they both heard a voice coming in over a distant walkie-talkie radio and they saw torch lights shining through the tunnel outside._

" _And you did call the police."_

" _'Course I called the police."_

" _I'm definitely gonna kill you."_

" _Oh, please. Killing me – that's so two years ago. Besides... you either have to wait in line, or my wife will find a way to prevent you from doing much harm. Knowing her, it could still go either way."_

 _Sherlock quirked a smile at John. He could see John was still fuming with the indignation of it all, but he couldn't help but join in the fun. He laughed silently. Sherlock chuckled again, causing John to sigh in exasperation._

\- Have fun with dinner

Sherlock smiled at that last text.

SSS

Sherlock was standing in his bedroom. A big grin plastered on his face he just couldn't seem to get rid of. Unused to the exercise, his muscles were starting to twitch in pained protest. Still, the grin on his face refused to budge. After all, it was time to celebrate!

It was about a week after he and John had diffused the bomb. Well, he'd been able to find an off switch and then Lord Moran had been arrested.

Reporters and photographers had of course demanded an interview now that they had definite, conclusive proof that he was – indeed – back. They had been chomping at the bit.

Mycroft had asked the media to leave his younger brother alone for a week, due to _personal circumstances._ After that, he promised, Sherlock Holmes would give a broad interview and was willing to ask any questions put before him. As long as those questions didn't intrude his personal life too much of course.

Kyrie in the meantime, had remained on conventional mechanical ventilation and was examined by the neurologist, who found her unconscious but with reactive, narrow pupils, flaccid bilateral paralysis and, fortunately, no other pathological findings.

He assured Sherlock that the flaccid paralysis would not be lasting and, with careful rehabilitation, there was a very good chance that she would recover completely.

On the fifth day, after a thorough examination that showed no new findings, Kyrie was transferred to the AICU ward of the Royal Brompton Hospital for further treatment of pneumonia and general rehabilitation. She was successfully weaned off the ventilator and was extubated on the eighth day. That was yesterday. And she was doing fine. Neurological re-evaluation showed no obvious disabilities and also cardiac function was preserved.

He had just learned from the doctor that she had regained consciousness but was still heavily medicated and in need of a healing rest. Sherlock would visit her later that day.

When Sherlock found out that Mycroft had planned a little celebration and again ordered tickets for 'Les Miserables', Sherlock made sure to plan the promised interview that precise day. After the matinee, his parents and Mycroft too, were going to visit Kyrie. It would be the first time he'd see her awake again.

Sherlock walked over to the full size mirror of his wardrobe, and single-handedly buttoned up his jacket as he was holding his phone to his ear with his left hand.

"Sherlock, please. I _beg_ of you. You can take over at the interval." Sherlock smirked at the desperate tone of his brother's voice and grimaced when he could hear the song 'Do you hear the people sing?' in the background.

"Oh I'm sorry, brother dear, but you made a promise. There's _nothing_ I can do to help."

"But you don't understand the pain of it – the horror!" Mycroft countered, hoping to garner some sympathy from his brother. Sherlock, still wearing that goofy grin that was even starting to grate on his own nerves a bit, ended the call.

He walked out of the bed room and noticed John walking up to him. "Come on. You'll have to go down. They want the story," he reminded him. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was really not in the mood for _that_ , but, he did promise.

"In a minute," he acquiesced. There was something he wanted to do first. They both walked back into the living room, where the rest of the gang was waiting for them.

Mary was sitting on the sofa, cradling a glass of champagne. Mrs Hudson, always one for idle chitchat, was sitting on a chair near Mary. Lestrade was lounging in John's chair, also sipping from a glass of champagne.

Sherlock quickly crossed the room to pop the cork on a new bottle from the kitchen and walked back, carrying the bottle and a glass with him. He knelt down beside the coffee table to pour, the correct way. He made sure the label was clearly visible when pouring the champagne, not turned downwards or otherwise covering it with his hand or fingers.

"I know you are all excited about the upcoming nuptials, but," he paused, smiling at his friends, "... there's more reason for celebration. I – I just heard from the doctor this morning. Kyrie..." he swallowed hard and couldn't keep the joyous grin from spreading again. "... it appears that she will make a full recovery."

Mrs Hudson and Mary simultaneously clapped their hands in front of their mouths. John stared at Sherlock, slack-jawed and Lestrade whooped.

"That is wonderful news!" "I'm so happy for you, I don't know her all that well but –" "When can we visit her?" "Oh, my lovely girl! I'm so happy I could cry!"

Sherlock raised his hands trying to calm them all down. "For those who want to visit her, I will give you the details shortly. For now, let's just focus back on the party at hand, shall we?"

It took a while before they actually did calm down, but, soon enough, the topic went back to the wedding.

"Oh, I'm really pleased, Mary. Have you set a date?" Mrs Hudson asked curiously.

"Er, well we thought May."

"Oh! Spring wedding!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed excitedly.

"Yeah. Well, once we've actually _got_ engaged.

"Yeah," John said with a grin while Mary gave Sherlock a pointed look.

"We were interrupted last time," she said in a way that assured him she wasn't really mad at him. He smiled at her.

"Well, I can't wait," Lestrade said as he raised his glass in a toast. John, who was going to join Sherlock with the interview, was putting his jacket on and turned his face to smile at Lestrade. Sherlock set down the glass he just poured, then stood up to walk towards the far window. He glanced down to watch the waiting media mob outside their door.

"You will be there, Sherlock? With Kyrie?" Mary asked him.

"Weddings – not really my thing," he replied dryly, but he turned his face toward her to give her a wink. She smiled at him.

"Your one to talk!" Lestrade scoffed. "You are married yourself! Besides, Kyrie might want to have a say in that. I doubt you can keep her _away_ from the wedding. She would shatter your eardrums in a heartbeat!"

"I have no doubt, Graham," Sherlock said good naturedly, ignoring the way Lestrade rolled his eyes. Chances were likely he just got that name wrong again. He shrugged his shoulders. Right now, he really didn't care. He resumed to look outside of the window.

At that moment the door opened and judging from the footsteps, Molly had decided to join the party. Apparently, she had brought a plus one.

"Hello, everyone," she said cheerily. "This is Tom."

"Hey, Molly," John greeted.

"Tom, this is everyone."

"Hi. It's really nice to meet you all. Hi."

And there was the plus one. Sherlock smiled. Introductions were made and he was pleased for her. It was the first time ever that Molly brought over a date. This Tom sounded quite easy-going.

"Wow. Yeah, hi. I'm John. Good to meet you."

Well, no time like the present, Sherlock decided. He had added his bit to the celebration and now he wanted the interview over and done with.

"Ready?" he asked John as he turned away from the window.

"Ready," John replied.

Lestrade raised his glass towards Sherlock as he walked past. He couldn't help but smile down at the man.

When he raised his eyes again, careful to not bump into Molly's new beau, he stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes went wide with surprise when he looked into a pair of eyes that were probably equally wide as his.

Sherlock quickly gave the young fellow a once-over from the feet up. It was like looking at an overzealous fan, trying to mould themselves after the image of their idol. But this young man seemed as surprised as he was. Oh, Molly really knew how to pick them, didn't she? He had once poked a bit of fun at Kyrie, claiming she had a type, but this... This was taking things to a whole new level!

Tom was tall and slender, bit less graceful perhaps. He had dark curly hair, though a bit shorter then his own. To be fair though, Sherlock most of the time was just too pre-occupied with other things to allow himself to get a haircut.

Just like him, Tom had large pale blue eyes and prominent cheekbones. Though he wasn't wearing a Milford Belstaff coat, Tom was wearing a similar dark coat and even had the collar turned up. Same style of shoes... he also wore a scarf and had it tied in Sherlock's preferred style!

Words escaped him. Behind him, Sherlock heard Lestrade walking over to Molly, offering her champagne.

He went a bit slack-jawed when his eyes briefly sought John's. John smiled broadly at him, giving him a look as if to say 'What do you make of that?' along with a little nod in Tom's direction.

Finally realising that introductions required some social pleasantries, Sherlock held out his hand towards Tom. When Tom shook his hand, Sherlock noticed his own hand was slightly turned up whereas Tom's was slightly turned down. It immediately settled the hierarchy between them.

Sherlock quickly walked between the couple and out of the door. He just grabbed his scarf when John followed behind him. Sherlock tried to ignore the look of shock surprise on his friends' face. He really didn't want to give it much further thought.

John pointed towards the door behind him. "Did you, er..?"

"I'm not saying a word," Sherlock replied quietly as he looped his scarf around his neck.

"No, best not," John agreed.

Sherlock looked down at his tied scarf. It immediately made him think of Tom. He pulled a face and threw up his hand with an exasperated sigh.

John turned his head to face him. "I'm still waiting," he said.

"Hmm?"

"Why did they try and kill us? If they knew _you_ were on to them, why go after _us_ – put _me_ in the bonfire and _Kyrie_ in a bloody freezer?!"

Sherlock picked up his coat and folded it over his arm.

Well, at least Tom could not get his hands on a Belstaff. He was pretty sure that particular edition was out of run. Hence why he had so many back up coats in his wardrobe.

That thought made him realise something. Kyrie only had one. She would need more. Was her coat out of run? Sherlock looked up when John cleared his throat. Oh, right.

"I don't know. I don't _like_ not knowing," he replied softly before trotting down the stairs, with John following right behind him.

"Unlike the nicely embellished fictions on your blog, John, real life is rarely so neat."

Sherlock stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "I don't know who was behind all this, but I _will_ find out, I promise you," he told John while putting on his coat. John stopped a few steps short.

"Don't pretend you're not enjoying this."

"Hmm?" Sherlock mumbled while adjusting his coat.

"Being back. Being a hero again."

"Oh, don't be stupid," Sherlock countered. "I told you once, I'm not a hero."

"Yes you are. To a lot of people you are. And you'd have to be an idiot not to see it. You _love_ it."

Sherlock furrowed his brows and turned around to look at his friend. "Love what?" he asked, his tone almost a bit daring.

"Being Sherlock Holmes," John said as he took the last two steps.

"I don't even know what that's supposed to mean," Sherlock said, waving the comment away. He then turned around to fetch and put on his gloves.

"Sherlock, you _are_ gonna tell me how you did it? _How_ you jumped off that building and survived?"

"You know my methods, John. I am known to be indestructible," he said with a quirk of his lips in an attempt to sound mysterious.

He really didn't want to go every minute detail again. As traumatic as his jump must have been for John and Kyrie to watch, something he truly realised now, it hadn't exactly been a picnic for him either.

"No, but seriously. When you were dead, I went to your grave. We both did."

"I should hope so," Sherlock replied offhandedly.

"I made a little speech. I actually spoke to you. And at your funeral... Kyrie sang for you. Do you know it was the last time I heard her sing? And she couldn't even finish it. She broke."

Sherlock slowly turned around. "I know. I was there," he said softly.

"I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead, for both our sakes."

"I heard you. And I did. Stop being dead, I mean. Just..." Sherlock licked his lips before he raised his eyes to meet John's. "I'm sorry it took me so long."

They regarded each other for a brief moment, before Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and turned around. John was getting a bit too emotional again.

"Anyway, time to go and be Sherlock Holmes," he said with a smile, and also in a way that indicated that for him, the subject was now closed. He started toward the door when his eyes caught sight of something.

He reached his hand towards the coat rack and lightly fingered the fabric. He hated it. But _she_ didn't. This would be his first time back into the lime light. Should he...? He took the deerstalker from its peg and turned to show it to John.

"What do you think? She always seemed partial to the bloody thing."

John smiled when he saw what Sherlock was holding up to him. "Are you kidding me? She loves you..." he paused briefly, "...wearing that hat."

Sherlock's eyes snapped up at John's hearing the brief pause. Was it deliberate? Was he trying to tell him something? His heart nearly leaped to his throat. Down! Sherlock ordered himself.

It was way to soon to even entertain such thoughts. He understood too little of the emotion, except for the chemistry involved. He understood the biology and he knew that love was merely a chemical state of mind with its primary goal being the continuation of the human species.

He knew that lust was driven by the sex hormones testosterone and oestrogen. Next stage 'falling in love' that biological drive to focus on one person, caused by the influence of adrenalin, dopamine and serotonin.

Then the stage of attachment, the stage that kept couples together long enough to have and to raise children. All under the influence of oxytocin and vasopressin. THAT's what he understood about love.

Since he'd never allowed himself to fall under that sort of influence, Sherlock realised he was very uneducated in that area. And before... It had never mattered... before.

"Sherlock, are you planning on staying here the rest of the day? I do believe there are people waiting for you. You know, outside?"

Sherlock shook his head. He stared at the deerstalker one last time before he put it on his head and tugged it in position. He squared his shoulders and then proceeded to open the front door. He stepped outside to meet the reporters as they gathered around him, taking pictures of him and shouting questions.

Sherlock briefly cast a glance behind him and smiled, seeing John close the door, before taking his rightful position. Right next to him, his best friend.


	45. A New Composition

**A/N I COULDN'T RESIST! I HAD TO POST THIS! IT'S HERE YOU GUYS! I pretty sure this chapter will make some of you really happy. Perhaps even swoon. I'm expecting raving reviews! Put in a bit of effort for me! :-D**

 **Katt96 I edited previous chapter with an explanation of how her name is pronounced. If you didn't see that, just go to the website of and search for kyrie eleison. You can click on the sound icon. Just imagine the 'eleison' part away.**

 **Artemis7448 You're getting your wish in this chapter!**

 **Thewickeprincess Nice to be able to tie a name to your reviews instead having to keep calling you 'Guest' :-) I hope the amount of fluff in this chapter is to your liking!**

 **Guest Nope, he ever has been one for baby steps. Though it's not really clear from the story right now (though it will be explained much later on in 'The Lying Detective'), basically Sherlock and The Woman have been keeping in touch. Apparently he felt that she owed him a favour after she almost made sure things would never be the same between him and Kyrie again. She's been helping him deal with Kyrie throughout the years.**

 **Without further ado... Let the fluff begin!**

SSS

Kyrie was, thank goodness, seated upright in her hospital bed, propped up by several cushions in her back. She was tired of just lying there day in and day out. But, she could move her right arm again! Yay!

Though the doctors and nurses told her how Mummy and Daddy had been frequent visitors while she was out, she really couldn't remember any of it. Apparently John and his now fiancée Mary had visited her as well.

Lestrade had come swinging by and Mrs Hudson of course. Also her friend Janine, who had now taken her position as Magnussen's PA, had visited a few times.

But, what surprised her the most, was the fact that even Sherlock and Mycroft had visited her! When she heard that, for a moment she was sure the end of the world was nigh. Both of the Holmes boys absolutely detested hospitals!

The only reason Sherlock would allow himself to even set foot into a hospital, was when he got it into his mind to conduct some sort of sordid experiment on corpses and organs and what not.

She was secretly pleased of course, to know that she at least inspired enough feeling inside of them to overcome their natural distaste of her current surroundings.

Kyrie knew they hadn't visited long and not very often at that. Not that she blamed them. When she looked around her hospital room, it was as devoid of beauty as a lot of people here were of hope.

The walls were simply off-white, not peeling or dirty, just... off white. There was no decoration to speak off, the floor was grey and the air always seemed to be infused with undertones of bleach.

The people who had visited her probably didn't like the gloomy state of her room, because when Kyrie had first woken up, she had stared blearily into the very relieved faces of Mummy and Daddy before she noticed her bed was surrounded with flowers and cards.

So, no decoration to speak of... except for the sea of flowers. There just seemed to be a never-ending stream of them. When she read the cards, she couldn't help but smile seeing that most of them were delivered in name of Sherlock or Mycroft.

But, she had been unconscious most of the time. She had not woken up long, not very long at least, and from what Mummy and Daddy had told her, she could expect Sherlock to drop by.

It probably was a good thing that she didn't have access to a mirror. It was more than likely that she looked like a mess and she did not want to feel awkward when he did come over. Not that Sherlock had a deep appreciation for outward appearance, but still, she didn't want to look... sick.

The sound of careful measured footsteps made her look up in anticipation. When she saw a huge bouquet of flowers appear in the doorway, along with a balloon, a stuffed teddy bear... and apparently a box of chocolates as well, she didn't quite know what to make of it.

She heard a long-suffering sigh coming somewhere from the behind the flowers. "This is silly, isn't it?" It was Sherlock's voice, sounding a bit muffled. Her heart started to dance a little jig.

He carefully walked over to her, but she still couldn't see him, except maybe a part of his coat showing underneath all the stuff he was carrying.

"Hang on..." he said. First he tossed the stuffed teddy bear onto her bed, then the box of chocolates. He turned around, looking for something, maybe? But then he flopped down the bouquet on the trolley near her bed.

Finally his face appeared in view and their eyes met. Hers anticipating, his... a bit awkward. He stuck out his hand, offering her the string of the balloon. She reached out her right hand to take it, her arm trembling a bit. Her muscles sometimes still refused to cooperate. When she took the string, their fingers touched, warm skin meeting warm skin. She expected him to instantly pull back his hand, but she noticed she was the first to do so.

"Thanks," she muttered softly before she fell silent, sitting there, awkwardly holding the string of the balloon.

"I'm going to kill, John," Sherlock muttered before he snatched the string away from her again. He turned around and tied the string to the trolley before he flopped down on one of the chairs next to her bed.

"Sorry," he then said. "I wasn't sure what you'd like so... I got it all. Went a bit overboard, I think."

When Kyrie looked at him, she noticed he wasn't quite meeting her eyes. There was... something different about him, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"It's lovely, all of it, thanks," she said meekly. He was clearly not feeling comfortable here and she feared he would leave as sudden as he'd appeared. She tried to think of something clever to say, but found her mind running blank now that he was here.

"How's John?" she finally decided to ask. Sherlock looked up at her and now he smiled. She smiled back at him.

"He's good. Really good, I think," he said. "He's um... he's engaged. To Mary. You met, I believe."

"Yeah, we have," Kyrie replied. "She seemed really nice."

"Yes."

They fell silent again. The giddy feeling of seeing Sherlock again disappeared. Somehow, it seemed, the two have them had lost the ability to carry on a conversation. This was just awkward. Kyrie hoped and prayed this had merely to do with the place they were in. Because... if they could no longer talk to each other, and she was expected to live with him again back at Baker Street, without John there as a buffer...

"Who captured you?" Sherlock suddenly asked. "John was captured as well, same night as you, he... didn't recognise the men that took him though. I'm still trying to find out who was behind all that."

Kyrie licked her lips. He probably wasn't going to like her answer.

"It was Gerulf, Sherlock. He wasn't happy about how I turned out when you – um, you know – killed yourself. And then you came back and we're still married. He decided that if he couldn't have me than no one else could either."

"Gerulf... Gerulf was behind your – kidnapping?" Sherlock asked her.

"Yes," she admitted.

He cursed under his breath. "Then that means someone else went after John. It wasn't related."

"I'm not sure about that" Kyrie differed. "Gerulf told me something... I can't remember clearly – it was so cold – But he knew that something was going to happen to John. He knows the person behind John's kidnapping, I'm sure of it."

"That's something, at least. A place to start," Sherlock said quietly. Then he suddenly leaned over and awkwardly took her hand in his, as if he didn't know what to do next.

When their eyes met, she noticed that look again. The look that told her that things were different, that he was different. She just didn't understand in what way yet.

"No more trips to a freezer, okay?" he told her with a wry smile.

She looked up at him and wondered what he'd see in her eyes. She was pretty sure they were still very pale. So much still left unresolved and unsaid. It would take time to fully trust him again. But God, she wanted to. She longed to!

"No more jumping off buildings and pretending you're dead," she told him, "And I will avoid getting stuck in a freezer again. Deal?"

He smirked at her. "Deal."

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He seemed to be looking for something when suddenly his lips curved into a smile. "Here," he said, "I made them promise to send me an early draft as soon as possible."

He showed her his phone and Kyrie saw an early draft of a newspaper article. 'Hat-man and Robin are back!' the tagline said. Underneath was a picture of Sherlock, wearing the deerstalker, his lips curved up in an enigmatic smile.

"You hate this thing," she whispered, looking up at him.

"You don't," he said softly.

It took all of her effort to not grab him by the lapels and pull him in to hungrily crash her lips against his. She longed to feel his lips on hers. She blinked her eyes and quickly looked away. If Sherlock could guess her thoughts, this once he was gentlemanly enough to make no comments about it.

He briefly leaned in to place a chaste kiss on her cheek before he stood up, preparing to make his leave.

"Oh, I may or may not have promised John and Mary that we would um... attend their wedding... together."

She looked up to meet his eyes and arched a brow at him. "Which of the two is it, may or may not?"

Sherlock pursed his lips in thought. "May," he finally admitted. "It was definitely may. Coincidently, they are thinking of planning the wedding for May as well. So, there. Keep your agenda clear. Also, we'll have to make sure to get you back in shape. Can't have you fainting half through the day."

He winked at her and then leaned over the foot-end of her bed so he could hand her the chocolates and the teddy bear.

Before he disappeared through the doorway, he turned around, his eyes sparkling green and gold. Kyrie eyed him suspiciously.

"I hope you will think about singing at their wedding. Though perhaps you shouldn't go for _Oh mio babbino caro_ again. Bit depressing for a wedding. Very moving for a funeral though."

She shut him up by throwing the teddy bear at his face. Her cheeks flushed when she heard him chuckle right before he vanished around the corner.

SSS

Kyrie was soon moved to a different ward to start the physical rehabilitation. She remained in that ward for several more weeks before she was finally released from the hospital.

To her immense surprise, Sherlock had organised a welcome back party. Though she had a sneaking suspicion that perhaps Mary had a hand in that as well.

It was a weird sensation, seeing her friends rushing about, all of them at her back and call. Especially Mrs Hudson couldn't refrain from asking if she needed anything every five bloody minutes.

Even Philip Anderson had dropped by for the occasion, looking a bit more like his old self, but without his annoying character traits.

Kyrie had a long chat with Mary and they got along famously. Mary dropped several hints about her plans for the wedding. She had no relatives to speak off and though she did have a long list of friends, there was a very, very short list of close friends. Since Sherlock was John's best friend, of course John would ask him to be his best man. Though she didn't ask her out right, Kyrie had a feeling Mary wanted her to be her matron of honour.

Mycroft had dropped by too, though very briefly. One look at the turn up and he quickly gave her a brotherly peck on her forehead, before he nodded stiffly at his brother and disappeared again.

Molly had been there as well, the girl seemed to love to flaunt her new boyfriend. It was quite a shock when Kyrie saw Tom for the first time. It seemed to be a bit of a running joke that Kyrie had missed out on. And poor Molly was completely oblivious about it. She was just happy with Tom. He did seem of the pleasant sort, though perhaps not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.

Whether his looks were intentionally moulded after Sherlock or not, he did pale in comparison to the original.

There was just something about the way Sherlock carried himself, his gestures and mannerisms, the unintentional aloofness... The way he walked and talked... it was impossible to capture and copy that essence of him.

Kyrie did feel a slight pang of jealousy seeing the easy way that Tom and Molly showed their affection for one another. Though Molly's boyfriend looked like a weak copy of Sherlock and Kyrie could count herself lucky to be living with the original, Molly in the end had trumped her in terms of love and romance. She had found the real deal while Kyrie was stuck in perpetual romantic limbo.

Though Sherlock did show affection towards her, they were not romantically engaged, as Molly and Tom were. And Molly knew.

Mrs Hudson provided all sorts of snacks and finger food, Mary had taken care of girly drinks while John had provided the hard booze. Lestrade was there as well and, from the looks of it, he, John and Philip were trying to find out just how soon they could finish the alcoholic supply.

Even Kyrie enjoyed a few drinks, making sure to not overdo it. Visions of herself completely trousered on heavy booze to take the edge of the pain away, made her shudder.

It was an evening of utter and blissful mayhem and chaos. She was disappointed though that Janine hadn't been able to make it that evening.

The evening didn't drag on for too long, as her friends did not want her to get over-exhausted after just having been released from the hospital.

John and Mary were the final couple to leave and when they did, Mary shot her a last meaningful look, right before she pulled the door closed behind them.

And suddenly they were alone. Sherlock stood up and briefly disappeared into his bedroom. When he returned, he was wearing his camel satin weave dressing gown over his clothes and he offered her a drink. He then took his usual seat in his armchair.

"It's... really John's chair, isn't it? The one you're sitting in now. Does it bother you? We could always... you know, get yours and... switch..." Sherlock started, emphasising the last word.

"You've sat in mine," Kyrie said with a smile, "This one really is much more comfortable. When I change my mind, we can always toss it out."

Sherlock chuckled lightly. "It is a good chair," he agreed. He paused and regarded her with one of those unnerving, unfathomable looks. "I took the liberty of arranging with Mycroft to have your, um, belongings moved back here. From what I understand they pretty much boxed everything so, if you want, we can start sorting things tomorrow. Or you can do it yourself of course, if you prefer."

"Couldn't have been much," Kyrie said with a wry smile. "I didn't have a whole lot there. There is one item I would love to have back though. I, um, dropped it, the evening I was kidnapped."

Sherlock nodded at her. He rose to his feet and briefly disappeared into his bedroom again. When he returned, Kyrie felt her mouth run dry, seeing the item he held out for her.

"You mean this?" he asked quietly. She nodded wordlessly when she accepted her scrapbook. She leafed through the pages, all the way back to the beginning. She could feel a lump form in her throat, seeing all those clippings that made up their old life together.

She quickly brushed a stray tear away when she looked back up again and saw Sherlock reclined in his armchair, his legs crossed, regarding her again with that odd look.

"Um, you just got this from your bedroom?" Kyrie asked, wondering if that's where she would find the rest of her stuff as well.

"Our bedroom," he countered softly. "It's yours as well."

"It never really was though," Kyrie said, not understanding. "I used to sleep in that converted little office. Surely you don't expect me to go sleeping in there again? Not with John gone, leaving a perfectly empty spare bedroom behind."

Sherlock didn't quite meet her eyes when he got out of his chair. "There's something I'd like to show you," he said cryptically. "I may have taken some liberties, but, either way, we should probably settle this now."

He walked across he room, then stopped and looked at her, waiting for her to join him. Kyrie sighed and got up from her cosy little position. She felt more than a little trepidation and she wondered what he had done now. Tact and subtlety never had been his strong suits. So, either he'd done something so horrendous that she would want to kill him, or he'd done something so wonderful she'd want to kiss him. At the moment, neither option seemed that great for her.

She could hear Sherlock draw in a sharp breath before he opened his bedroom door. Kyrie was afraid to find out what she would see inside. Whatever it was, it had a profound effect on Sherlock's attitude and she felt more than just a little reverence for anything that could have such an effect on him.

The moment she stepped inside his room however, she was met with a very anticlimactic, perfectly and ordinary looking bedroom. She turned her head to face him, her heart jumping a bit when she found him standing right behind her. She arched a brow at him anyway.

"It's your bedroom," she said dryly. He gave her a boyish grin and gently closed the door behind him.

"Sherlock?" she asked quietly. He didn't reply. He took a few steps towards her old little room and swung open the door so she could have a look inside. Kyrie tentatively took a few steps forward. The moment she peeked around the door, her breath caught in her throat.

Her bed was gone! Her night stand was gone! Instead, right against the far end wall of the room, there was a beautiful antique looking mahogany dressing table. She couldn't guess the period but it looked beautiful and perfectly elegant.

The left and right sided walls were lined with shelves, drawers and railings. Her old room had been turned into a walk-in closet. She noticed the several boxes on the floor that, presumably, contained her meagre belongings.

To the left she counted... six new burgundy coats. She could feel a fit of hysterical laughter bubbling up, but she was too shocked to move a muscle.

Kyrie felt a bit dizzy and leaned against the doorway. What the hell was going on? "It's a walk-in closet," she stated faintly.

"Yes," he confirmed.

"In your bedroom."

"That's quite obvious."

"Not very practical, isn't it, having a walk-in closet in _here_ , if I'm sleeping up _there_ ," she said, pointing in the general direction of John's bedroom.

"I agree completely. That's why you are not sleeping up _there_ ," Sherlock said dryly.

Her mind was reeling. She couldn't think, she could hardly breath. What in heaven's name was Sherlock thinking? Did he really think she was made of stone and could happily sleep next to him as they'd done in Dartmoor? Because it was looking an awful lot like that was exactly what he was thinking.

"What have you done?" she moaned in despair.

"I made you a walk-in closet, so you'd have more room," he said, sounding hesitant.

"Not what I was talking about, Sherlock!" Kyrie whirled around to face him. "You can't just make these decisions on you own!"

"Oh. I'm sorry. I..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "I miscalculated then. I will have your stuff moved upstairs by tomorrow," he said stiffly. "I will take the couch tonight."

He turned around and was ready to leave her on her own. Kyrie could feel her heart hammer in her throat. He'd been right, earlier, they really had to settle this now. Meaning that, at the moment, there was no room for miscommunication.

Her hand shot out and her fingers curled around his wrist. He turned around to give her an annoyed look, until he looked into her eyes. She realised she could not stand more naked in front of him, if she were to remove all of her clothes.

"You got me a beautiful dressing table, you bought me six additional coats, you created a walk-in closet here... in this room... _our_ room, you said earlier. Why? You've always been _very_ clear about us, about the nature of our marriage. And back in Dartmoor, I warned you... I told you what could happen when..." Kyrie stopped. Her body started to tremble.

"Sharing a bed is pretty intimate, Sherlock," she said, her voice very low and raspy. "If you want me to co-exist, to live here with you, the way we've done from the beginning... Then this..." she gestured at his bed. "...this is not an option for me."

Kyrie stared at him. She hoped that he understood what she was trying to tell him, because honestly, he could be so thick at times!

Sherlock pulled his hand away from her grasp and took a step forward to stand in front of her. He cast a sideways glance at his bed before settling his eyes on her. He raised his hand and gently brushed his knuckles against her cheek.

"I remember what you told me," he said softly. Kyrie looked up at him, saw how he dipped his head and briefly gazed into her eyes. A small gasp of surprise elicited from her lips right before he took her mouth in an endless, tender kiss that took her breath away and shocked her senses. His lips moved against hers with a hesitant curiosity, tasting and shaping them, fitting them to his own, then sliding back and forth.

Kyrie could scarcely believe what was happening, she could only respond by leaning into him, her hands sliding up his arms for support. Her lips were soft and pliant against his. He increased the pressure and quickly flicked his tongue against her lips, urging them to part while sending little shocks of pleasure to every nerve ending in her body. Her lips yielded to the sensual pressure with a contented sigh and allowed him to gently plunge his tongue between them.

The feeling of his tongue exploring her mouth turned her knees to jelly. In a fever of dazed yearning, she slid her own tongue between his lips. His response was immediate. He wrapped one arm around her, crushing her against him, while his other hand grasped the back of her head. His tongue plunged deeply into her mouth as if he was trying to absorb her.

An eternity later he dragged his mouth away from hers and slid his lips along her hot cheek until he placed a lingering kiss against her temple and pulled her close to him.

Sanity slowly came back to her and Kyrie found her cheek pressed to his chest. She shivered lightly, only half comprehending what had just happened. She forced herself to pull away from his embrace and met his gaze.

"I'm – I'm experiencing an unusual influx of adrenalin, dopamine and serotonin," he whispered hoarsely, his eyes blue eyes smoldering with those lovely shocks of amber.

"I don't know what that means," Kyrie whispered, not yet fully able to think coherently.

"Me neither," he chuckled. "Not any more at least. I thought I did," he said as he laid his palm against her flushed cheek, his fingertips softly tracing the delicate bones of her face.

Confused by his inexplicable mood, Kyrie gazed searchingly into his softly blazing eyes. Suddenly the sultry look in his eyes subdued. He pulled back and gave her a thoughtful look.

"I'm not romantically inclined, Kyrie. I have a dislike for highly emotional outbursts. Any emotional outbursts for that matter. I'm not easy to get along with, as you already well know. I'm not going to buy you flowers, or candy or any other such nonsense. Your stay in the hospital was... an exception to that. I will probably forget your birthday each year, just as any anniversary dates. Given that...do you think it's possible for us to... explore whatever... this is?"

She replied the only way she could. "I'd like that," she said softly.

He suddenly frowned. "I don't do compliments. Will that be a problem?"

She smiled up at him. "Not at all."

"I'm also inconsiderate."

She chuckled. "I knew _that_ already."

"And you still want to give this a try?"

Kyrie bit her lip and felt like her heart could explode with happiness. "Will there be kissing involved?"

"I think that's what we just did," he said wryly.

"Will there be more?"

"It's pleasurable enough. So... yes. Can I kiss you if the need arises... like in Dartmoor?"

"As long as you make it a good one."

He grinned down at her. "Anything else?"

"Can I... touch you? I mean, like this? Hugging?"

Sherlock pursed his lips in thought. "I don't see why not, although... there will be moments I'll be quite adverse to touching, canoodling, cuddling... whatever you want to call it.

"How about... intimacy?" Kyrie ventured.

He cleared his throat. "Obviously, that _is_ part of a relationship. At some point. Eventually. Can I say... no, for now?"

"Just to be clear, you _are_ planning on...

"... having dinner?"

Kyrie arched a brow at him. "Is that what you like to call it?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Very well... You _are_ planning on... having dinner... with me... at some point?"

"Yes," he stated so solemnly that Kyrie had to giggle.

"Is there something else you would want to... establish, right now?" Kyrie asked.

"Um, just that, for now. We keep this between us?" he asked. "I'm not used to..."

"Sure, that's fine," she assured him.

He suddenly had a bit of a pained look on his face.

"What?" she asked.

He grimaced.

"Tell me."

He sighed.

"Sherlock!"

"Fine! Remember, in Dartmoor... I was always out of bed earlier than you?"

"Yes, I do."

"I'm not usually an early riser. Back then I kind of had to. Apparently my mind and body are not always in sync. Especially when I'm asleep. Basically, my body throws all rules out of the window and anything goes."

"If I recall, that only happened once, because you were doped up."

"Not what I'm referring to."

"Then what _are_ you referring to?" she asked curiously.

He leaned in to whisper something in her ear. Her eyes went wide in surprise.

"Really?" she asked with a chuckle.

"'Fraid so."

"I – I um, have no problem with that."

"I do," he muttered darkly.

Kyrie bit her lip to keep from laughing. Whoever could have guessed that the aloof, untouchable Sherlock Holmes... was a spooner?


	46. How Friendships are Forged

Over the next couple of months very little changed for them. Kyrie made very sure of that. Even though John was now living with Mary, he still came over to receive clients with Sherlock.

Kyrie and Mary both worked together to make sure that this friendship, that was so important to both of the men, was still allowed to thrive, though be it in a different capacity.

Relationship wise, things developed... very slowly. Kyrie gladly let Sherlock set the pace to what he was and wasn't comfortable with.

After two years of marriage in which she'd been his companion, much like John, and after those two years of grieving, she was too happy he was actually interested in pursuing a real relationship, to care that he was going really slow about it.

To account for the fact that Kyrie hadn't taken up John's bedroom, they told Mrs Hudson she felt much more comfortable in her small hidy-hole, feeling safer there after what Gerulf Schricken had done to her. Kyrie was careful to keep her little treasure closet locked at all times.

Where before they had to act as a couple to the outward world, now they toned it down in public. Though Sherlock had little regard for what people thought about him, he wanted their true relationship to be something personal between the two of them. That way he could slowly ease into what it meant to suddenly be in a relationship, without other people putting pressure and strain on it with their thoughts, opinions and expectations.

So, in the public eye they continued with their polite affection towards each other. Behind closed doors however, there was a lot of... experimenting. Sherlock demanded she'd try out several displays of affection towards him. The kind of stuff he thought was part of a normal relationship.

That's how they discovered that neither of them liked it when she sat on his lap, or was clinging around his neck. Clinging was a no go, period. Neither was hovering. Basically any overly romantic display of affection would make him bolt from the room.

Kyrie sometimes suspected that for Sherlock, having a relationship meant that he had acquired a personal slave. He wasn't even that far off. Kyrie had always enjoyed taking care of her boys. Now, that only Sherlock was left, he was shamelessly taking advantage of that.

He would flop down on the sofa when she was reading and he would force her hands out of the way so he could put his head in her lap. It forced her to hold her book in a different way. He would then distract her with meaningful looks, until she gave in and threaded her fingers through his curls. He would then proceed to peruse newspapers, check his phone, or idly watch TV.

A part of him did seem to realise that it was custom in a relationship to kiss. Since he was already shaping the relationship according to his personal preferences, he was – thank goodness – more than willing to make up for any personal flaws and defects in the form of that little activity.

He was already used to the casual kiss to his cheek and he was more than enthusiastic in experimenting with actual kisses. When he found out how many different types of kisses existed with just as many different meanings or emotions behind them, he was adamant to try them all out. He explained his new found enthusiasm by telling her that it helped him to better understand human emotion, making him an even better detective.

One day she caught him watching excerpts of romantic movies. He made a face each time he heard words like 'honey-bunch', 'babe', 'doll-face', 'lover', 'pumpkin', 'dove' or 'sugar'.

"Do people actually behave this ridiculous around each other?" he asked her aghast.

"Some," she said, gently rubbing his back. "But not all."

When he'd gotten around to a few scenes from the film 'How to lose a guy in ten days', Kyrie had nearly hurt herself falling over seeing the look of horror on his face.

She had grabbed the remote away from him. "No more romcoms for you, Sherlock. They really don't give you the best guidelines for being in a relationship. We'll be fine, stop being so uptight about it!

In an attempt to be more open around her, Sherlock accidentally became too stiff. His hugs and touches felt forced. Until Kyrie finally told him he should stop trying so damned hard and just... be himself. He seemed to be immensely relieved hearing those words from her lips.

There was a bit of an awkward moment when Kyrie woke up with Sherlock's limbs practically crushing her. He wasn't kidding about the spooning! He was thoroughly embarrassed about it, until he finally started to realise it was okay. It didn't mean he'd suddenly become infected by 'human sentiment', it was just his stupid body acting on its own while his brain was asleep.

Waking up and falling asleep. Those were the golden moments. When his brain was either not yet fully awake or starting to shut down to get ready for sleep. He was definitely less uptight during those moments.

At some point, she found Sherlock looking through her jewellery box with its sparse contents. When she asked him what he was doing, he turned around and showed her his small golden wedding band. With a smile she slid it back on his finger.

One morning, just a few weeks after Kyrie's home coming, she was surprised to find Mary entering the living room. She had her hands deep in her pockets and grinned expectantly at Kyrie.

"Hi," Kyrie greeted her in surprise. "Um, the boys are out."

"I know," Mary said with a shrug. "I came here to see you, actually."

Kyrie smiled pleasantly and motioned Mary to take a seat. She flopped down on the sofa and Kyrie joined her.

"Look," Mary started, offering her a crooked smile. "I know we haven't known each other long but... your husband and my husband-to-be are... well, best friends. You know John is going to ask Sherlock to be his best man."

Kyrie smiled nervously, sensing where Mary was going with this. "Yeah, please tell John to ask him when I'm around. This is Sherlock we're talking about. Wouldn't want to miss that!"

Mary chuckled. "I'll tell him. So, how about you? Fancy becoming my matron of honour?" Her voice was hopeful.

She hesitated. She really did like Mary, but... they didn't know each other that long and being matron of honour, that was a big deal! Not something to dump on someone who just happened to be your fiancé's best friend's wife.

"Come on," Mary encouraged her. "It's either you or Janine Hawkins."

Kyrie's eyes snapped to Mary's. "Janine? My friend Janine? How do you even know her?"

Mary shrugged. "We met a coupled of times when we visited you in the hospital. We got talking and... I like her. See? If you won't do it, I have to dab into _your_ friend pool to find myself a matron of honour, or _maid_ of honour in her case."

Kyrie chuckled and pulled her hand through her hair, feeling pretty self-conscious. "I want to say yes, but..."

"No 'buts' please, just say yes."

"It's such a special day, you should have someone at your side who's special too."

Mary smiled brightly at her. " _You_ are! Your husband is John's best friend. You're his second closest friend and pretty damn special in his book. I can't think of anyone better suited for the task."

Kyrie nibbled on the top of her right pinky, hiding the smile she sent Mary. Mary suddenly furrowed her brows and leaned over to study her face. Kyrie arched a quizzical brow at her.

"What?" she asked after a while.

"Nothing," Mary said offhandedly, "But I could have sworn... You know that day we first met? Near Sherlock's _grave_?" Mary scoffed at the word. "I thought your eyes were, like this pale blue colour. Icy."

Kyrie could feel a blush creeping on her cheeks. Maybe she should consider starting to wear coloured contacts so people would stop obsess over her eyes.

"They _were_ icy back then. So that's what John meant... He said you looked terrible that day even though I thought you looked incredible."

Kyrie arched her brows.

"You had this...aloofness going on. Icy eyes, pale gaunt face. 'Don't go near me or I'll smack you around' kind of look. John always said that wasn't you. Huh. I didn't believe him."

Mary smiled brightly at her. "You and him... you two have become a 'thing', haven't you? For real, not the pretend thing because of that bad guy."

"Shh!" Kyrie said, her face flustered.

Mary ignored her protest and kept beaming at her. "How did _that_ come about? John told me all about him and one thing that used to drive me crazy... was all of his talk about how he couldn't understand how Sherlock never showed any romantic interest towards you."

"How the hell can you even tell?" Kyrie asked while pressing a hand to her flushed cheek.

"Oh, your eyes. They do that thing whenever Sherlock comes up in conversation. There... right there, they did it again. They kind of turn sparkly violet. What _is_ that anyway?"

"Probably the heterochromia. Sherlock has it too," she added quickly, trying to draw the attention away from her eyes. _That and_ _I_ _just_ _have_ _weird eyes_ , she thought.

"It's much more noticeable with you though," Mary said thoughtfully. "But you didn't answer my question. According to John, you could dance a jig naked in front of Sherlock and he wouldn't notice. Always said he's smitten with you but too thick to realise it. Seems he realises now?"

Kyrie confirmed Mary's suspicions by a barely perceptible nod.

"Oh my God!" Mary squealed in excitement. "It's true! Oh, this is so good! Mr I-don't-do-romance. He's so full of crap! What. Happened? Did he sweep you off your feet?" Mary asked with a straight face, though her lips were twitching.

Kyrie grinned, thinking back to that awkward evening when Sherlock decided to just show her the bedroom change because THAT should make things clear for her.

"He was – very – _Sherlock_ about it," Kyrie finally said. "Right after his return, he let me know he wanted me to return to Baker Street. Sherlock being Sherlock, I thought it was because he didn't like the prospect of suddenly living alone... You know, you and John were already living together, so obviously John wouldn't come back. I was the next best thing."

"Uh-huh," Mary said with an infuriating smile.

"Then John and I got kidnapped and we both know how that ended up..."

Mary shifted a bit uncomfortably in the sofa.

"Then when I was released from the hospital and we had that lovely party, Sherlock told me he had my stuff brought over. I planned on moving into John's room and then Sherlock showed me he had other plans."

"How do you mean, 'He showed you'?" Mary asked with a grin.

Kyrie grinned back at her. Well, the cat was out of the bag anyway. And really... it was _so_ good to be able to talk to _someone_ about it!

"Let me show you," Kyrie said, getting up. "You familiar with our previous sleeping arrangement?"

"Er, yeah... John upstairs, Sherlock master bedroom and you had a glorified broom closet _in_ the master bedroom."

"Exactly," Kyrie said as she guided Mary towards their bedroom. She opened the door and allowed Mary to step inside.

"Oh, so this is where it all happens?" Mary teased, looking about the room. When Kyrie didn't respond to that, she arched a brow at her.

"What... don't tell me you haven't..."

Kyrie shook her head.

"But you sleep together!"

"In the same bed, yes. Not... sleeping together. Or, as Sherlock puts it... having dinner."

"Why not?" Mary asked in surprise. Kyrie gave her a pointed look.

"Aaaaaah," she exclaimed. "Is that the reason why we haven't been made privy of this development?"

"He wants to explore things in private. In time, when we... _he_ figures it out, then we tell. I think. Please don't tell John, about any of this," Kyrie pleaded.

Mary stayed silent but crossed her heart with her fingers, smirking.

"What did you want to show me?" Mary asked.

Kyrie grinned at her and swung open the door of the space that used to be her 'bed room'. Mary's jaw dropped open.

"Holy cow!" she whispered, seeing the beautiful mahogany dressing table with the large mirror in a moulded frame and finely carved supports. It had a figured mahogany top over a long frieze drawer and five graduated, cock-beaded, mahogany lined drawers to each side.

"That's early Victorian," Mary stated in awe.

"Ah, thanks. I figured it was antique, wasn't entirely sure about the period though."

Mary chuckled as if she was unable to believe her eyes. "It is gorgeous!"

Her eyes travelled across the rest of the room, settling on the small collection of burgundy coats.

"What the hell?!" she laughed.

Kyrie chuckled. "Don't even ask. He's fond of coats. You should see _his_ collection!"

"So, that evening, yeah? The end of the party, yeah? He showed you... this?"

"Yes."

"What did he have to say for himself?"

"Just that he made this so I would have more room, in _our_ bed room."

Mary's eyes turned wide. "And he didn't..."

"Ask? No."

"He is..." Mary tried, but couldn't find the right description.

"I know," Kyrie grinned.

"Then what?"

Kyrie tried really hard to not start laughing, it was taking a lot of effort. "He kissed me, right before he informed me that he would not buy me trivial, romantic stuff, that he would forget my birthdays _and_ our anniversaries, that he would not give me compliments and overall would be... inconsiderate," she regaled smugly.

Mary made a few odd spluttering noises. "Oh God," she groaned. "This is priceless. I wish I could tell John!"

"You can't, not yet."

"And you agreed to all _that_! You just said yes?"

Kyried closed the door the door to her walk-in closet behind them, making sure to lock it securely, before walking back to the living room.

"There really wasn't anything else I could say," she admitted. "I've been in love with him ever since he started showing up in the newspapers wearing that hat."

Mary dissolved in a fit of laughter and Kyrie gestured at John's armchair with a smile.

"Have a seat. Tea?" Kyrie asked.

"Yes, please," Mary accepted with sparkling eyes.

Pretty soon, they were each curled up in an armchair. Mary in John's and Kyrie in Sherlock's.

And like that, over a cup of tea, seated near the fire place... their friendship forged and Kyrie agreed to be Mary's matron of honour.

With people having different personalities and Sherlock's... well... sometimes awkward disposition, Kyrie was grateful that the four of them got along so well. What had started as a friendship between two men, became a deeply rooted friendship between two couples. Even though one half of a couple didn't necessarily realise that the other couple was in fact a couple too.


	47. Goin' to the Chapel of Love

**A/N Oh my goodness, so many lovely reviews again and, now that I'm back at work again, so little time! No time to address them all individually so, let me start by saying – again – thank you for reading this, liking this and... best of all -hint, hint- reviewing this!**

 **Now, just a few responses to reviews and answering some questions...**

 **Yes, it was Mycroft who helped Sherlock with his 'gift'. So yes, Mycroft knows that Sherlock wants the marriage to be real and no longer fake.**

 **Kyrie is no Sherlock, so no... she won't notice anything 'odd' about Mary, or... maybe she did? It's something that Mary herself addresses in 'His Last Vow'.**

 **I am planning to write 'The Abominable Bride' but it will be a condensed version.**

 **Though I love writing Kyrie and Mary, I'm already over 500 pages story as it is so... yes there are a few more scenes... Basically the entire 'Sign of Three' is one big fluff fest. But I do want to hurry things along otherwise this story will never finish :D**

 **Also, Sherlock really does hate the fact that 'his body' enjoys cuddling and spooning while his mind is asleep. It's why Kyrie refers to the moments of his waking and falling asleep 'The Golden Moments.'**

 **Okay, let's get on with this! Enjoy the new chapter and let me know what you think!**

 **SSS**

In no time at all, suddenly May the 18th had arrived. Mary and John's wedding date...

Kyrie, woke pretty early, surprised to find Sherlock's side of the bed to be empty. Usually he was a bit more lazy in the morning. Ah, perhaps he was more nervous about today than he let on! Kyrie smiled. She quickly dressed herself in a cream curve hugging muslin dress and walked through the kitchen across the living room.

She halted when she saw Sherlock standing next to their dinner table, wearing his camel dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, hunched over while scribbling down something. It was good to see his clothes fitting him well again. No more eerily protruding bones at least.

"Good morning," he greeted her, without looking up. "Do you waltz?"

"Good morning yourself. You know I do. Why?"

He picked up a remote control and started some music. Kyrie smiled when she heard the, by now, familiar notes of a special waltz he'd been composing. Especially for the wedding. Who said he didn't have a heart?

He held out his hand for her. "I need your opinion," he said as she stepped into his arms. After the brief intro he began to guide her through the first steps of the waltz and she followed him with unpretentious grace.

She closed her eyes while Sherlock whirled her through the gentle melody flowing around them. He waltzed, she thought, with the same effortless elegance with which he wore his superbly tailored morning suit. The one that was waiting for him in their bed room.

"Do you think this is good enough to dance to?" he asked her softly.

"Mm," was her only reply, revelling in the feel of waltzing with Sherlock around the living room.

Suddenly his arm tightened around her waist, pulling her against him, making her look up at him. The lazy smile he gave her made her miss a step.

"Now look what you made me do," she pouted.

He grinned at her. "I do need to add a last few finishing touches."

The door to their living room opened and Mrs Hudson came in carrying a tray with tea things. She refrained from greeting them with her usual 'yoo-hoo'. She just smiled fondly at them. Sherlock cast a quick glance at her over his shoulder.

"Shut up, Mrs Hudson," he ordered her.

"I haven't said a word," their landlady bristled.

He sighed, guiding Kyrie through the last couple of steps of their waltz. "You're formulating a question. It's physically painful watching you thinking."

Kyrie snorted at his comment. Sherlock let her go.

"I thought it was you playing," Mrs Hudson said surprised.

Sherlock gestured at the music player. "It _was_ me playing." He picked up the remote control to stop the music and haphazardly threw it back onto the table, before bending down to make a slight adjustment to the sheet music.

"I am composing."

Mrs Hudson put her tray on the small table next to John's chair. Even though he'd moved out ages ago, it was and always would be John's chair.

"You were _dancing_ ," Mrs Hudson said pointedly.

"I was road-testing."

"You what?" she asked perplexed.

Sherlock sighed and threw down his pen before he turned to look at her. "Why are you here?" he demanded.

Kyrie cast a look of sympathy in Mrs Hudson's direction. Sherlock was all nerves at the moment, which meant he could turn really nasty in a heart beat.

"I'm bringing you two your morning tea," Mrs Hudson said pleasantly while pouring some milk into the teacups. "You are not usually awake. I took over from Kyrie after... you know..."

Kyrie scowled a bit. She didn't like to be reminded of the fact how she'd nearly frozen to death in that awful walk-in freezer, or how long it had taken before she had regained full control over all of her muscles again.

"You bring us tea in the morning?" Sherlock questioned her as he took a seat in his own chair, right across from Kyrie.

Mrs Hudson poured the tea for them. "Well, where d'you think it came from?!"

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture with his hands. "I just thought it sort of happened."

"Your mother has a lot to answer for," she told him, handing Sherlock his cup of tea first.

"Mm, I know," he said, accepting the tea. "I have a list. Mycroft has a file."

Kyrie started to laugh.

"Oh hush," Mrs Hudson scolded her lightly, but her grin betrayed her. "You are overindulging him way too much. He's already spoilt enough as he is!"

She handed Kyrie her tea and went to sit in a nearby dinner chair.

"So, it's the big day then!" Mrs Hudson said, all giddy with excitement, patting her knees with her hands.

Sherlock sipped his tea, keeping his face impassive. "What big day?"

"The wedding! John and Mary getting married!

"Two people who currently live together are about to attend church, have a party, go on a short holiday and then carry on living together. What's big about that?" His voice sounded a bit detached.

"It changes people, marriage," Mrs Hudson claimed.

"Mmm, no it doesn't," Sherlock disagreed, ignoring the look that Kyrie gave him.

"Well, you wouldn't understand 'cause your marriage isn't exactly conventional."

Kyrie snorted at the comment and Sherlock, who was about to take a sip of his tea, stilled his hand momentarily. "Your husband was executed for double murder. You're hardly an advert for companionship," he then said and took a sip.

"Marriage changes you as a person, in ways that you can't imagine," she insisted.

Kyrie met Sherlock's eyes briefly and smiled seeing the green sparkle in them.

"As does lethal injection," he said, giving Mrs Hudson a pointed smile.

Mrs Hudson got a bit of a distant look in her eyes. "My best friend, Margaret... She was my chief bridesmaid."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put down his cup and saucer on the table next to him.

"We were going to be best friends forever, we always said that... but I hardly saw her after that."

Sherlock stood up from his chair as if he'd been stung by a wasp. "Aren't there usually biscuits?" he asked.

"You finished all my cookies yesterday!" Kyrie admonished him.

"Well, they were ginger nuts," Sherlock defended.

"And I've run out," Mrs Hudson said.

"Have the shops?" Sherlock walked purposely over to the door.

"She cried the whole day, saying, 'Ooh, it's the end of an era.'," Mrs Hudson told Kyrie.

Sherlock gestured towards the stairs. "I'm sure the shop on the corner is open." Kyrie grinned hearing the slight edge of exasperation in his voice when Mrs Hudson refused to get any of his hints.

"She was probably right, really."

He closed his eyes and pulled a face.

"I remember she left early," Mrs Hudson continued. "I mean, who leaves a wedding early?" She shook her head in melancholy. "So sad."

"Mmm. Anyway, you've got things to do." Sherlock tried another quite obvious hint.

"No, not really," Mrs Hudson disagreed. "I've got plenty of time to..."

"Biscuits!" Sherlock told her, his voice edgy and stern.

Mrs Hudson gasped a bit and her eyes snapped towards Kyrie who merely shrugged her shoulders in response. She loved their landlady, but she loved to have a quiet moment with Sherlock, before the madness would begin, even more.

Their landlady tutted as she get out of the chair and briskly walked towards the door. She lingered near the door and glanced over her shoulder. "I really am going to have a word with your mother. Kyrie lets you get away with anything!"

"Thank goodness," Sherlock muttered. "You can have a word with her if you like. She understands very little," he said, slamming the door closed behind her. He turned around and sighed, closing his eyes briefly.

He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her, sitting in John's chair, a brief look of pain flashed through his eyes. Kyrie immediately got up and walked over to him. She placed a hand against his chest, making him look down at her. She saw a muscle twitch in his cheek as he clenched his jaw.

She knew words would not placate his restless mind. He was anxious about this day. The night before, in his restless sleep, he'd held her close to him in a suffocatingly tight grip. Even though John had left Baker Street two years past, it was the wedding that brought Sherlock concern for the change it would bring. He needed to figure out, on his own, that change was good when it was in the right direction.

She patted his chest lightly, silently reminding him that she was still there and not leaving. He nodded at her before he turned around and walked through the kitchen, shrugging out of his dressing gown as he went. "Right, then," he muttered in resignation.

Kyrie followed him into their bedroom. His morning suit was hanging from the open door of his wardrobe, her lilac bridesmaids dress hanging next to it. He sighed deeply, staring at his suit. "Into battle," he said wryly before he picked up his suit resolutely and handed Kyrie her dress.

SSS

The wedding ceremony was held at St Mary Magdalene Church. Kyrie, as matron of honour, stood in front of three more bridesmaids, one of them actually Janine Hawkins, right behind Mary. Sherlock, as John's best man, stood right behind the groom.

Kyrie searched his eyes and when they met, she smiled at him. He returned the gesture with a brief smile of his own. Her eyes wandered over his form in appreciation. He looked absolutely dashing, though he seemed a bit unhappy about the tie.

Four years ago, they had stood next to each other, much like Mary and John right now, though under completely different circumstances. She had not worn a real wedding dress and, if memory served her correctly, Sherlock had just been wearing one of his suits. Not even one of his good ones. She knew that this was as close to a groom as she would ever come to see him.

The bridesmaids were wearing lilac, satin a-line dresses that fell quite short. Kyrie's matron of honour dress was an entirely different beast. She was wearing a beautiful column style gown, made of the finest chiffon, with flattering draping and folds.

The fabric had a bit of a more violet hue to it that, according to Mary, beautifully enhanced the violet in her eyes. Her waist was cinched in an ornate glittering belt and the delicate cap sleeves were edged in lace. The gown pooled around her in an enticing manner and the fabric was supple and delicate. She smiled thinking about the beautiful belt and the little secret it held.

Mary had grinned at her, when she first set eyes on Kyrie in her dress. Kyrie had felt herself blush at the meaningful look that Mary had given her.

The bride herself looked absolutely stunning in her lacy cream wedding gown and John looked smashing in his suit that was similar to Sherlock's. Bride and groom were both beaming with happiness.

When the ceremony ended, Kyrie could feel Sherlock's eyes on her. He offered her his arm and gave her a crooked smile. The church bells pealed and the doors to the churched opened, allowing John and Mary to set their first steps outside in the world as John and Mary Watson.

The photographer was already waiting for them outside. "Congratulations! Okay, hold it there – I wanna get this shot of the newly-weds."

Sherlock, so used to standing in the lime light, having his picture taken, suddenly stood still next to Mary. Kyrie, sensing an awkward moment coming up, gently pulled at his arm.

"Keep moving, sweetie. He means just a picture of the bride and groom," Kyrie whispered at him, as she left her place as matron of honour to save her husband the awkwardness of an embarrassing moment

"Right, sorry," he whispered as he moved to the side with her.

He suddenly looked down at her, his eyes glittering green and amber.

"Okay – three, two, one, cheese!" the photographer told behind them.

"Sweetie?" Sherlock asked with a smirk while the bridesmaids threw handfuls of flower petals into the air and the photographer started taking pictures.

Kyrie rolled her eyes. Of course Sherlock would not let that one slide.

"Oh, hush," she said. "It slipped out."

The rest of the congregation started to file out of church, keeping the photographer very busy.

He first took a picture of the newly-weds, then a picture of Mary and her bridesmaids and a picture of Mary together with Kyrie. Mrs Hudson got photographed as well, wearing a ridiculously large feathered hat and a thoroughly happy smile on her face.

Another picture was taken of Mary, her bridesmaids and also an awkward looking Molly, wearing a formless bright yellow dress with something undefined tied in her hair that had to go for a flower and a bow.

Sherlock and John posed with young pageboy, Archie, in front of them, wearing Sherlock's grey hat. Next, the photographer took a shot of the moment that both John and Sherlock threw up their hats into the air.

The photographer motioned Sherlock and Kyrie to stand together.

The first shot the photographer took of them, was of Sherlock standing ram-rod straight. His right hand on his back and his left curled around his grey top hat, the one that young Archie had returned to him. Sherlock looked ahead of him with a dead-serious, kind of startled look on his face. Kyrie held her hands clasped in front her and tried to smile graciously instead of smirking in amusement.

"Um, a bit less formal?" the photographer requested him. "You two are married, are you not? Let's see a little affection."

Sherlock promptly slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. She steadied herself by placing her hand against his back. Their gazes met – Kyrie's lips slightly parted in surprise, Sherlock's lips curled up in humoured smile.

"Now that's what I mean! Lovely, absolutely perfect!" The photographer exclaimed as he took their picture again.

From the corner of her eyes, Kyrie saw Molly staring at them with an oddly forlorn look on her face, even though Tom was right next to her, holding her arms affectionately while she stood there with rigidly set shoulders. When Kyrie followed her gaze, she realised it was Sherlock who Molly was really staring at.

The photographer moved on to other people and Kyrie suddenly heard a voice with a familiar lilt coming from behind them.

"The famous Mr Holmes!"

They turned around and Kyrie smiled brightly at Janine.

"I'm very pleased to _finally_ meet you. Well, to be properly introduced that is," Janine said, winking at Kyrie. She had to smother a grin, realising what her friend was getting at.

"So, you two are honouring the age old tradition then?" Janine asked in a cheeky tone.

For a moment Kyrie didn't quite get what her friend was getting at and even Sherlock seemed confused.

"Um, sorry?" he asked.

Kyrie wondered if he realised he still had his arm wrapped around her. Not that she minded.

Janine started to laugh. "I'm only messing with ya. Bridesmaid, best man... sex... It's a bit traditional, isn't it?" She then looked a bit awkward, seeing their shocked faces. "I'm sorry, I thought it was a bit funny, with you two being married and all."

She looked around her and the look on her face fell a bit. "Ugh, isn't this disgusting? Everyone here seems to already be with someone.

"You looking to hook up with a guy?" Kyrie asked with a grin when she had recovered herself.

"Um, yah! What do you think?" Janine said, rolling her eyes.

"If that's the sort of thing you're looking for..." Sherlock nodded his head in the direction of one of the wedding guests. "... the man over there in blue is your best bet. Recently divorced doctor with a ginger cat…"

Kyrie slightly turned her head to steal a look at the man he was talking about. All she saw was a decently attractive man, blue shirt, pink carnation pinned on the lapel of his jacket, wearing a pair of ugly cowboy boots.

"... barn conversion," Sherlock droned on, "... and a history of erectile dysfunction."

Kyrie's eyes widened.

"Reviewing that information, possible not your best bet," he said, realising his mistake.

"Yeah, maybe not."

"Sorry," he said apologetic. "There was one more deduction there than I was expecting."

"Kyrie," Janine said, while her eyes were fixed on Sherlock. "Can I borrow him for a bit? I have a feeling he could be incredibly useful."

Kyrie chuckled. "Maybe later, no promises though! It also depends if you managed to make sure Kathryn actually shows up in time."

"Oh, right! Because you and her..."

"Shh!" Kyrie admonished her.

"Oh, no need to hush on my account," Sherlock said dryly. "I already know you are planning to sing a duet with your friend's sister during the evening event."

"How...? Sherlock? I wasn't even at home when I arranged this!" Kyrie said, slightly put off at the fact that her surprise wasn't a real surprise, not for him at least.

"Um, you guys, I think I see a lovely chap, right over there... far away from here. Excuse me!" Janine quickly excused herself.

Kyrie turned around to glare at him. He looked down at her with a bemused expression on his face.

"Really?" he drawled as only a Holmes boy could do, "You want to ask me _that_ question. Who are you married to again?"

"You," she said reluctantly.

"And who am I?"

She pursed her lips in annoyance. "Sherlock Holmes..." she muttered.

He pulled her closer to him so he could lean down and whisper in her ear.

"Care to ask me that question again?"

His breath tickled against her ear.

"You didn't _have_ to say you already knew," Kyrie mumbled.

"Hmm."

It was the only reply she got before he offered her his arm.


	48. Anything you can do, I can do better

**A/N Why do I keep doing this? I'm only setting myself up for a lot of stress... But... Damn... I just wanted to post this. 'Someone' wanted a bit of Molly bashing... Well... A-hum. Okay, first let me make clear... I actually did like Molly in the series. She was awkward, yes, but her crush was kind of endearing though it did get old.**

 **In my story, Molly and Kyrie just don't get along. Maybe that will change in a far and distant future, but... they really don't like each other at the moment.**

 **Katt96 Aw, thank you for your lovely review! They always make me smile!**

 **Thewickedprincess Oh, you won't find out about what's up with the belt till the end of the episode! Thank you for your review!**

 **Enoy this one. Last update today. I SWEAR!**

SSS

The entire party moved to the venue of the reception, the orangery of Goldney Hall. Kyrie was standing at Mary's side, while Sherlock stood at John's side as they welcomed the guests to the reception.

This was probably a moment that was as painful for Sherlock as it was for her. She hated having to stand there, keeping a smile plastered on her face. Looking over at Sherlock, she noticed an equally forced grimace on his face. She couldn't very well call it a smile. Even John seemed fed up with the never-ending stream of well-wishes, handshakes and kisses. But Mary was just lovely. And happy. That's all that counted.

"Hello. Lovely to meet you," Mary said with a smile and a kiss for the umpteenth time.

Kyrie tried to spot the end of the throng and sighed when it was nowhere in sight. Her eyes suddenly went wide when she noticed who approached them next.

"David!" Mary exclaimed with delight and she reached out her arms, ready for a hug.

David, wearing a light grey suit coupled with a lurid purple tie, quickly leaned out of the way, laughing nervously while awkwardly patting her hand.

"Mary. Congratulations. You look, um, very nice."

David quickly moved away from her and went to shake John's hand, causing Mary to look at him with a puzzled look in her eyes.

"John, congratulations. You're a lucky man."

"Thank you," John said with an easy smile.

"Um, er, David, this is Sherlock and his wife, Kyrie," Mary said, gesturing at them.

Kyrie leaned forward to sneak a glance in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock gave David a tight-lipped smile.

"Um, yeah. We've, um, we've met," David replied, looking as he was dying to get away from them.

Kyrie could vividly remember those – interesting – days, in which Sherlock had put himself to the task of submitting each and every guest who'd RSVPed to a substantial background check. The ones he red-flagged were then – invited – to come over. Like David...

 _David was sitting at the dining table, back in their flat, looking around the room, taking in the organised mess that Sherlock loved to surround himself with. Sherlock was sitting across from him, pen and paper at the ready._

 _Kyrie was vigorously mixing chocolate chip cookie dough in a large bowl with a spatula while keeping a mindful eye on the two men._

" _So, what exactly are my duties as an usher?" David asked while picking up Sherlock's Sudokube, earning him a disapproving look._

 _Sherlock flicked down the pen and folded his hands._

" _Let's talk about Mary, first," Sherlock said, his voice treacherously calm. Kyrie's eyes shot towards him, hearing that particular tone in his voice._

" _Sorry, what?" David asked in surprise._

" _Oh, I think you know 'what'. You went out with her for two years."_

" _Ages ago. We're just good friends now," David said, just a bit on the defence._

" _Is that a fact?" Sherlock asked and took a look at his notes he had in front of him. "Whenever she tweets, you respond within five minutes regardless of time or current location, suggesting you have her on text alert. In all your Facebook photographs of the happy couple, Mary takes centre frame whereas John is always partly or entirely excluded."_

 _When Kyrie looked over, she saw David staring wide-eyed at Sherlock, getting more nervous with every fact that Sherlock confronted him with._

" _You can't assume from that I've still got some kind of interest in Mary," he said with a nervous smile._

" _You volunteered to be a shoulder to cry on on no less than three separate occasions. Do you have anything to say in your defence?"_

 _David opened his mouth, but couldn't find the words to actually defend himself with._

" _I think from now on we'll downgrade you to 'casual acquaintance'," Sherlock said while jotting down a note. "No more than three planned social encounters a year, and always in John's presence."_

 _Kyrie grinned to herself. It was just like Sherlock to decide things for someone else, whether they liked it, or agreed to it or not._

 _He put his pen down and went back to folding his hands while staring at him intensely._  
 _"I have your contact details. I will be monitoring."_

" _They're right about you. You're a bloody psychopath!" David said full of disdain._

 _Oh, no... He did not just say that! Kyrie quickly strode over to him and tapped him on the shoulder, making him look up at her. The moment he did, she slapped him across the face._

" _Don't insult my husband when I'm around," she suggested. "I won't stand for it!"_

 _Sherlock looked at David with a 'That's-got-to-hurt!' expression on his face. "I wouldn't upset her if I were you," he said dryly. "She looks sweet, but she can get really nasty. Also, I'm a high-functioning sociopath... with your number." He gave him a demented grin, showing a lot of teeth. Suddenly he dropped the fake grin and placed the palms of his hands together in front of his chin, giving David a stern look._

 _Kyrie did absolutely not agree with his self-diagnosis of high-functioning sociopath. He was too caring for that. She didn't tell him that however. He wouldn't like it. Maybe someday when he was more comfortable with 'feeling'._

 _David looked away, let out a nervous breath before he got up to leave. Sherlock promptly picked up his Sudokube and flopped it down into its proper position._

 _Kyrie went back to preparing the cookie dough when Sherlock got up and walked over to her. When he turned her around, she looked up at him, wondering what he wanted. Apparently, he wanted to say 'thank you'._

 _He did so by capturing her lips with his own, making her instantly melt against him. It was a brief, playful kiss, but one she enjoyed a lot. He could interrupt her for a kiss any time of the day, she thought with a smile._

David made a few spluttering noises before he left to go inside after a brief wave in Mary's direction. Kyrie noticed how John looked round at Sherlock with clear curiosity. Sherlock merely stared ahead, a cryptic look on his face. When the next guest approached, Kyrie briefly locked eyes with Sherlock. He gave her a sly grin and a wink.

The moment the young pageboy, Archie, got Sherlock in his sights, he ran towards him to wrap his arms around him, smiling happily. Sherlock awkwardly patted him on the back, looking over at Kyrie with a pained expression on his face.

Kyrie rolled her eyes when the boy's mother gushed over Sherlock's wonderful 'way' with her son, and how he'd helped him come out of his shell. If only she knew...

 _Kyrie was putting away a fresh supply of tea. She decided to have a word with Mrs Hudson and tell her it was no longer necessary to bring them tea in the mornings. Hadn't been for quite some time actually._

 _She kept glancing over her shoulder in the direction of Sherlock sitting in his chair, while a young rebellious little kid, Archie, was sitting in John's chair. Apparently, the boy showed no inclination to comply with the wishes of the adults of how to behave and look at the wedding. Sherlock, taking his job as best man very seriously, tried his hand at persuading a kid to do what they were told._

 _For the moment, they were both staring at each other, measuring each other up. Sherlock took a deep breath. "Basically it's a cute smile to the bride's side, cute smile to the groom's side and then the rings."_

" _No," the boy said instantly, without even contemplating the idea._

" _And you have to wear the outfit." Sherlock continued as if Archie hadn't just said 'no'._

" _No."_

" _You really do have to wear the outfit." Sherlock insisted._

" _What for?"_

 _Really, did that kid need no time at all to think and speak?_

" _Grown-ups like that sort of thing."_

" _Why?"_

 _Kyrie rolled her eyes while Sherlock seemed to ponder the thought for a moment. "... I don't know. I'll ask one... Kyrie?"_

 _She looked up to find both Sherlock and Archie looking right at her with similar looks of expectation on their faces._

" _Why do grown-ups like that sort of thing?" Sherlock asked._

" _Why do you ask me?" she questioned him._

" _You're a grown-up."_

" _So are you," she retorted._

" _Since when have you known_ _ **me**_ _to understand frivolous notions like wearing a monkey-suit to a wedding?"_

" _It looks nice, Sherlock! Most people like weddings and they like their weddings to be nice. People_ _ **looking**_ _nice helps with that."_

" _There you have it," Sherlock told Archie. "They want you to look nice."_

 _Silence fell between the two again._

 _Kyrie really thought it was safe enough to just briefly disappear downstairs to give Mrs Hudson a sample of some new tea she'd scored._

 _It was a black tea, custom blend, called 'Black Moon', or simply 'Mandarin Chai' and consisted of a black Assam tea with dried orange pieces, cinnamon pieces, black peppercorns, cloves, ginger pieces and cardamom._

 _When she walked back into the living room, she noticed that both Sherlock and Archie had changed their location and were both looking intently at his laptop screen._

" _What's all the stuff in his eye?" Archie asked, completely engrossed in whatever they were watching._

" _Maggots," Sherlock replied offhandedly. Kyrie's head shot up in shock, her eyes flared open. What?_

" _Cool!" the boy exclaimed._

 _Sherlock gave the boy a brief pondering look. "Mm!" he finally said._

 _Really, that man had no sense of 'age appropriate'!_

Kyrie shook her head at the memory and watched relieved as Archie obediently followed his mother inside. She felt even more relieved when there were no more hands left for the newly weds to shake and they could finally go inside as well.

Before they joined the rest of the crowd, Kyrie tugged at his sleeve to draw his attention. He instantly turned his head to see what she wanted. "Are you as relieved as I am that we don't have to sit through... all of this..." she said, gesturing at all the people around her.

Sherlock blinked a couple of times, opened his mouth to say something but then seemed to think the better of it. When Kyrie understood, she mentally face-palmed herself. "If we weren't already married, you never would have asked me to marry you, am I right?" she asked a bit wryly.

"Not in a million years," Sherlock admitted.

"People don't live that long," she reminded him.

"True."

She bit her lip for a while. It was no use at all to feel slighted about something she'd known about his character all along. He was not the marrying type and he'd never been secretive about it. The fact he now _was_ married and actually seemed to enjoy the status, was a miracle in itself.

"Then I'm glad we are already married," she admitted softly. He looked down at her, his lips slightly parted in surprise. Then he smiled and placed a kiss right above her ear before he whispered, "Me too." When she looked up at him, she understood that was the only concession he was willing to make on the subject. It was already more than she expected.

When they entered the large room, the photographer was still busy making pictures of all the wedding guests. Molly couldn't refrain from kissing Tom's cheek over and over and over again. If Kyrie had not seen the forlorn look in her eyes earlier, when Molly had been staring at her as Sherlock had his arm draped around her waist, she might have been fooled by this display of affection.

"Kyrie! Sweetie, darling, my best friend!"

Kyrie looked up and saw Janine practically prancing towards them.

"Can I _please_ borrow your husband for a bit? I _really_ need him to help me land a guy tonight!"

"I'll leave that up to him," she said with a laugh, "Though you may want to make the job more enticing for him by saying it would be a perfect opportunity to flex his deduction muscles."

When Sherlock opened his mouth, Kyrie immediately cut him off. "I know it's not really a muscle, Sherlock, it's just an expression!"

She grabbed him by his arms and looked up at him, giving him a stern look. "Now, Sherlock Holmes, can I trust you not to elope with my friend Janine?"

Janine giggled at the suggestion but Sherlock just sighed in exasperation. With a slightly annoyed look on his face, he did offer Janine his arm. When they turned around and walked a way, Janine glanced back over her shoulder to give Kyrie a thumbs up. She chuckled at her friends' antics.

Kyrie looked around for a bit, looking at the faces of many people she liked and cherished. Like Mrs Hudson who seemed to have a great time with Mr Chatterjee from the sandwich shop, even though Mr Chatterjee himself looked less than thrilled to be there. She also spotted Greg, sitting by his lonesome, cradling a beer while having a bit of a glum look on his face.

She did a little turn around the room, chatting with a few of her friends and suddenly nearly bumped into Molly and Tom.

"Oops, look out sweet Mollykins," Tom said with giggle.

"Oh, Tom!" Molly laughed at him and put her hand on his chest. "I nearly tripped!"

Kyrie could only stare at them, mouth gone completely slack-jawed. As if she had tripped and fell straight into 'The Twilight Zone'!

"Kyrie, sorry... I didn't see you just then. You look... … nice," Molly told her with a bit of a tight smile.

She tried to force her mouth to smile but she was too aware that the compliment was really just a jab in disguise. She had really tried to like Molly, had even attempted to befriend her. But, apparently, Molly couldn't handle friendship from the woman who was married to the man she 'secretly' had a crush on for God knew how long.

"Thank you, Molly," Kyrie said and she forced her lips to curve up a bit. She would love to rip the appalling flower and bow out of the other woman's hair and throw it to the floor and stomp all over it.

"You look very... bright..." she decided to say.

"Tom loves me in yellow, don't you honey-bunch?" Molly said with a giggle.

"I sure do, Mollykins," Tom said with a wide smile.

Kyrie felt as if she was going to gag. She looked around for a way out.

"Who's that with Sherlock?" Molly suddenly asked. "They look very... cosy... Shouldn't you...? Oh, wait... I forgot..." Molly stammered and was suddenly all apologetic. She even 'blushed' in embarrassment.

Kyrie didn't buy it. That woman had just tried to rub her nose in the fact that her marriage to Sherlock was faker than the smile he preserved for people he considered to be boring.

"Oh, you know how he is," Kyrie managed to say with a smile. "By now he's already plotting his escape. I imagine you have a lot of experience with that. But um... just between us girls..." Kyrie had trouble to suppress the smirk the threatened to come out when she noticed the startled look on Molly's face.

Kyrie leaned forward a bit. "I wouldn't let Tom wear his coat with the collar popped up. He really doesn't have the cheekbones for it." She patted Molly's arm and quickly turned on her heel.

She saw John and Mary standing not far from her and she quickly marched over to them. However, just as she approached them, John suddenly walked off in a different direction. Kyrie turned her head in surprise and saw how John walked over toward a uniformed man. Wow, so that was Major Sholto then! She couldn't see clearly, but the man seemed to have some severe scar tissue on his face.

"Hey Mary," Kyrie said as she joined her friend, looking on as John and the Major saluted each other.

"What the hell have you just said to Molly?" Mary asked her with an amused grin. "She's staring at you as if she wants to throw you off a building, set you on fire while chanting around you and then flush your remains through the toilet."

"Eh, she just tried to make me jealous. I merely reminded her that Sherlock never starts a conversation with a woman without a devising a way out first, as she should well remember."

"Oh God, why do you always do this stuff when I'm not around? I thought we were friends?"

They laughed at each other.

"So that's him. Major _Sholto._ "

Sherlock was suddenly standing right behind her. He was standing so close to her, she could practically hear his voice reverberate through his chest. She wondered at his disapproving tone though. She looked at the man, but found nothing out of the ordinary.

"Uh-huh," Mary said simply, smiling in delight.

"If they're such good friends, why does he barely even mention him?"

Kyrie shivered lightly. It was so tempting to just lean back against him if he was standing so close behind her. She fought the impulse, but she couldn't resist. Kyrie leaned back slightly, trying to see if he would tense with the sudden touch or not, but he didn't flinch. He probably was too distracted by Major Sholto anyway.

"He mentions him all the time to me. He never shuts up about him," Mary said, moving her glass of wine to her pink painted lips.

"About him?" Sherlock asked in surprise as Mary took a sip.

"Mm-hmmm," she managed to mumble before swallowing the wine. She immediately grimaced in disgust. "Blegh. I can't believe I chose this wine! It's bloody awful!"

"Oh, I don't know, I think it's quite –" Kyrie started to say, but Sherlock cut her off.

"Yes, but it's definitely _him_ that he talks about?" Sherlock asked while wrapping a placating arm around Kyrie's waist. His fingers lightly brushed over her stomach, causing a few muscles there to jump at his touch. Kyrie promptly forgot why she was displeased with him.

"I've never even heard him say his name," Sherlock said. Kyrie turned her head to look up at him. It sounded as if he was pouting!

"Well, he's almost a recluse – you know, since..."

"Yes," Sherlock stated.

"Since what?" Kyrie asked, feeling a bit left out since all she knew about the man was his name and the fact that he used to be John's commanding officer.

"Mm, long story, I'll fill you in some time. Not suitable wedding talk though," Mary said, "I didn't think he'd show up at all. John says he's the most unsociable man he's ever met."

" _He_ is?" Sherlock asked incredulous, almost as if he was insulted. " _He's_ the most unsociable?"

"Mm," Mary mumbled.

"Ah, that's why he's _bouncing_ round him like a _puppy_ ," Sherlock said, his voice full of venom.

Kyrie's mouth dropped open and Mary grinned as she hugged Sherlock's arm. He was jealous! Sherlock 'I-don't-do-emotions' Holmes was jealous! J.E.A.L.O.U.S. JEALOUS. With capital letters! She was astounded. She'd never even seen this side of him! She looked up at him in wonder. Would he be jealous about her too?

"Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know," Mary said with a goofy grin.

Kyrie could feel him lean over to the side. "Stop smiling," he said.

"It's my wedding day!" she said with a mock pout and then smiled as he rolled his eyes. Sherlock pulled his arms free and left them both standing there.

Mary took another sip from her wine glass and pulled another face.

"Still not any good?" Kyrie asked.

"It's even worse!" she said.


	49. The Wedding Dinner and Telegrams

**Lovesagoodstory19 Wow so great to be able to call you something other than 'Guest' as well. I hope you weren't worried about the update. They will still be coming, just at a different time now that I'm back at work. I was hoping you liked that chapter! It was very fun to write. Hell, the entire 'Sign of Three' episode was fun to right! I hope you will enjoy this one too!**

 **DreamonAlina Sorry if you were worried as well. Like I said, updates are still coming, just at a different time now. I really, loved writing all the bits you raved about. It's so much fun to have a go at them, and embarrass them now that they are in a relationship. It's one big experiment and I love every moment of it! The thing with Figaro... it's not really a wedding song and it was just a cute moment during that Christmas. I have something else planned for the wedding reception. When we get to that point, I hope you'll understand why I didn't go for Figaro.**

 **TheWickedPrincsess Hahaha I really wanted Molly and Tom to act in the very way that appalls Sherlock. They represent everything he hates about being in a relationship. And nope... you just have to wait and see what's up with the belt. And... no... it does not hide a secret condom -slaps head-**

 **Artemis7448 I can't... I can't even word right now... But um... nope... that's not it!**

 **Kuppcake Aw thank you so much! And what a coincidence! I really loved how Sherlock just couldn't get her name right. But, after the way she got beaten up, he started caring for her in such a way he could just no longer forget her name because she became more important to him.**

 **Have fun with this chapter!**

 **SSS**

Sherlock's insides were screeching while he tried to maintain an impassive air. It was a new sensation for him to be feeling so many different things at the same time with different intensities.

He didn't like the fact that apparently Major Sholto was the one who John always seemed to talk about. Wasn't John supposed to be talking about, _him_ , his best friend? Wasn't that the reason why Sherlock suddenly found himself to be his 'best man'?

Besides that, he would soon have to make a speech. A speech that was supposed to be funny, moving and charming at the same time and he wasn't any of those things. In a matter of time a room full of people would be watching him while he had to deliver a _speech_.

If that wasn't awful enough, he couldn't seem to keep his own damn body under control. His eyes kept drifting towards his wife. If she was away for too long he kept searching her out in the crowd. She was so effortless in all of this. If anyone was funny, moving and charming, it was her.

After months of waking up with her in his arms, his body had grown accustomed to her nearness. To the point he seemed to miss it when she wasn't near. He knew he was severely influenced by that destructive chemistry of attraction... It was nothing more than adrenalin, dopamine and serotonin running rampant in his head,

He'd always known how ruinous that particular chemistry could be, but now he was actually experiencing it himself. And though pursuing a real relationship with Kyrie _was_ what he wanted, he wished those _urges_ and _feelings_ weren't so... prevalent at times.

He liked the quiet moments back at Baker Street. Kissing was very enjoyable and he actually liked waking up feeling the proximity of another body close to his. He liked the moments he could enjoy and still be in control. But lately, his body was anxious to experience more.

He knew that the answer was simple. He should... have dinner with her. For God's sake he really should just have dinner with her so his body's relentless craving for her would cease already!

" _Sex doesn't alarm me."_ He'd once told Mycroft. The truth was... It did.

So, it really did not do anything to calm his nerves, that whenever he looked at Kyrie or even thought about her, he suddenly... noticed things he'd never noticed before.

Though shapely female curves had never particularly appealed to him, as was often the case with other men, he did realise she had a body that was created for a man's hands to discover. Along with that, she had a pair of eyes he could fall and drown in, a voice that could move even the dead, a smile that could be sunny or sensual, and a mouth—a mouth that positively invited him to kiss it.

He raked his hand through his hair and started pacing. What would his brother say to him now if he saw him like this? _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Don't get involved, Sherlock. Love is not an emotion worth to discover, Sherlock, it only complicates matters,_ his mind, in Mycroft's voice, told him.

His baser instincts didn't agree though. _Shut up, Mycroft, you pretentious prick! Just have dinner with her. You know you want to. You know_ _ **she**_ _wants to. It's in her eyes every bloody time you kiss her. Those questioning eyes... When will you have dinner with me?_

For a moment he could see her standing there... Her dress flowing around her, draping down her supple body in an alluring way. His mouth ran dry thinking about those delicate capped sleeves. It would be so easy to slip them off her shoulders and... watch the rest fall down and pool around her feet.

He realised he had to... have dinner with her. Soon. If only to remove the mystery of sex and to retain his mental capacity. Once he'd had _dinner_ , he could catalogue the process and file it all away.

That thought finally calmed him down. He released a shuddering breath and could feel his mind return to its normal state. Good, now that he had worked _that_ out of his system for now... It was time to make a phone call. Though he didn't dare admit it, not even to himself, he really wanted his brother to be there tonight.

"Yes, what, Sherlock?" his brother said, gasping in between breaths.

"Why are you out of breath?" Sherlock asked while walking through the reception room.

"Filing," Mycroft answered dryly.

"Either I've caught you in a compromising position or you've been working out again. I favour the latter," Sherlock said. He shuddered at the thought of his brother enjoying _those_ kind of activities. _Stop thinking about that!_

"What do you want?"

"I need your answer, Mycroft, as a matter of urgency."

"Answer?" Mycroft repeated him, clearly not understanding what this was about.

"Even at the eleventh hour it's not too late, you know," Sherlock reminded him.

"Oh, Lord," Mycroft said with a sigh.

"Cars can be ordered, private jets commandeered," Sherlock quipped.

"It's today, isn't it?" Mycroft said with a sigh. "No, Sherlock, I will not be coming to the 'night do', as you so poetically put it."

"Sure? Kyrie will sing tonight. She promised. You always like it when she sings."

"A tempting suggestion to be sure, but, no, not even _her_ golden little voice can sway me to come by. I can hear her some other time. In a more _familial_ setting, preferably."

"What a shame. Mary and John will be extremely d..."

"... delighted not to have me hanging around."

"Oh, I don't know. There should always be a spectre at the feast."

There was a moment of silence. Sherlock could hear his brother making himself more comfortable. Probably an armchair. He hoped...

"So, this is it, then. The big day. I suppose I'll be seeing a lot more of you from now on."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked at a loss.

"Just like old times."

"No, I don't understand."

Sherlock hated that. It still made him feel like the dumb kid.

"Well, it's the end of an era, isn't it? John and Mary – domestic bliss. Though of course, you also seem to be enjoying a bit of domestic bliss... for yourself now."

"I prefer to think of it as the beginning of a new chapter."

Mycroft kept silent.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing!"

"I know that silence. What?"

"Well, I'll better let you get back to it. You have a big speech, or something, don't you?" Mycroft said, without answering his question.

"What?"

"Cake, karaoke… _mingling_."

"Mycroft!"

"This is what people do, Sherlock! They get married. Even you did. And it seems to be working well for you too. You just got involved."

"Involved? I'm not involved," he spat.

"No," Mycroft said in a tone that betrayed he did not believe a word what Sherlock was saying.

"John asked me to be his best man. How could I say no?"

"Absolutely!"

"I'm not involved!"

"I believe you! Really, I do! Have a lovely day, and do give the happy couple my best."

"I will."

"Oh, by the way, Sherlock – do you remember Redbeard?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw and could feel a nerve twitch in his cheek.

"I'm not a child any more, Mycroft."

"No, of course you're not. Enjoy _not_ being involved, Sherlock."

SSS

Through the RSVPs, the attending wedding guests had been given the opportunity to select their preferred dishes during the dinner.

For the starter, Sherlock had picked the smoked salmon and prawn pâté while Kyrie had picked the juicy melon wrapped in prosciutto di parma.

"This is actually not terrible," Sherlock commented in surprise after he'd taken a careful taste of the starter. "Mm, do you want the shrimp? I don't like the shrimp."

"Sure," Kyrie said and she smiled when Sherlock immediately offered her the shrimp on his fork. She took the offered bite and chewed thoughtfully. "It's nice, I like it. I like the parma ham more though. Really good quality. Want a taste?"

"I already stole a piece of your plate when I fed you the shrimp. I should have gone for that too."

She smiled hearing his confession he'd swiped a piece of ham from her plate. It did not surprise her. For some reason, her plate always seemed to have the most appealing bits for him.

"Wanna switch?"

"No! Don't be silly! You picked it. I'll stick with the pâté. The offending shrimp is gone now anyway."

Kyrie smiled at him. "It was a tasty shrimp."

That made him chuckle.

They had picked the same main dish of thinly sliced pork fillet, served with broccoli, baby carrots, string beans and baby potatoes. Sherlock seemed disappointed there was nothing for him to nick from her plate to have a taste. Although... he was more than happy to dump his broccoli on her plate and steal a few of her baby carrots. He smiled in triumph.

Kyrie retaliated by stealing some of his string beans. Since Sherlock didn't really care for those either, it was a bit of a hollow victory.

During dessert, Sherlock did something that made Kyrie want to rush home for a cold shower...

Sherlock had picked the chocolate profiteroles with raspberry's on the side served with a drizzle of raspberry coulis. While Kyrie had picked the much simpler, but not less tasty, alternative of fresh plump strawberry's with freshly whipped cream.

When Sherlock offered her a raspberry on his fork, Kyrie – feeling a bit flirtatious – put her hand on his to move it closer to her face so she could take the offered bite. He didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed quite fascinated by her every little move and look. He was studying her as if he'd just discovered a new species of insect. Not quite the reaction she was going for, but then again... this was Sherlock.

He then decided he could play that game too, but then better. The moment Kyrie wanted to pop a strawberry with a bit of cream inside her mouth, Sherlock grabbed her hand and raised it to his mouth. He kept her captivated with his gaze when he slowly sucked the small fruit from between her fingers.

"Delightful," he then said with a smile.

A clattering noise next to Sherlock thankfully drew his attention, giving Kyrie some time to recollect herself.

"What?" Sherlock asked, when he noticed John staring at them with eyes that nearly threatened to pop from their sockets. Mary, looking a tad bit inebriated by the champagne she actually did like, was giggling like a mad woman.

For Sherlock the end of the wedding dinner came way too soon when the Master of Ceremonies suddenly tapped a spoon against a champagne glass to draw everyone's attention.

Sherlock threw her an anxious look and she briefly put her hand on his.

"You've got this," she whispered.

"Pray silence for the best man." The Master of Ceremonies requested.

Sherlock rose to his feet at the top table where they were sitting. John and Mary were seated to his right and Kyrie to his left. As the guests applauded for him, he buttoned his jacket and cast another quick anxious glance in Kyrie's direction. She smiled encouragingly as he clasped his hands behind his back.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he started bravely. "Family and friends... and... … … … … erm... others."

That's when his mind seemed to run blank as he suddenly stopped talking. It took him a few long seconds before he was able to produce sound again.

"Er... w..."

He opened his mouth a few times and made a few spluttering noises. It probably sounded really eloquent in his mind, but his lips refused to form the words.

"A-a-also..."

Kyrie noticed Mrs Hudson looking at Sherlock with a nervous expression on her face. Somehow, seeing their landlady, it made her think back to a peculiar afternoon not too long ago...

 _She had just returned from a dress fitting with Mary. When she opened the door, she heard high-pitched hysterical shrieks coming through the open door of 221A. She furrowed her brows in confusion._

 _Kyrie carefully walked to the door as the noises continued, only interrupted by an occasional squeal of 'Oh, dear!' and 'Oh, brilliant!' Kyrie pushed the door open further and walked into Mrs Hudson's flat, peeking into the kitchen, slightly concerned for the well-being of their landlady._

" _Oh, hello, darling!" Mrs Hudson greeted her when she spotted Kyrie and continued to giggle._

" _Mrs. Hudson! Are you all right?" she asked worried._

 _Mrs Hudson covered her mouth in an attempt to stifle her laughter._

" _I just came back and I heard you, I thought you were..."_

" _No!" Mrs Hudson cried out, threatening to dissolve in another peal of laughter._

" _... possibly dying," Kyrie continued, grinning when she realised the only danger Mrs Hudson was in, was dying of a fit of hysterical laughter._

" _Oh, sorry!" she managed to choke out._

" _What's wrong?" Kyrie asked with a smile._

" _The-the telegrams!" Mrs Hudson cried out._

 _Kyrie couldn't help but grin at the hilarity, even though she had no idea what Mrs Hudson was going on about._

" _Sorry, what?" Kyrie asked for clarification._

 _Mrs Hudson quickly got up and patted Kyrie on the arm. "Oh, sorry, dear!" she said, still shrieking with laughter as she walked away, leaving a bemused Kyrie behind._

Kyrie groaned when she realised. "Telegrams," she said softly.

Her comment seemed to jolt Sherlock from of his blank state.

"Right, um..."

He patted his trouser pockets when Kyrie inconspicuously drew his attention to the pile of telegrams waiting in front of him, with a slight gesture of her hand.

"First things first. Telegrams," he said as he picked up the stack and showed it to the guests.

"Well, they're not actually telegrams. We just call them telegrams," Sherlock suddenly rambled on in his quick-fire way. "I don't know why. Wedding tradition..."

Kyrie softly cleared her throat and Sherlock instantly lifted the first card. "... because we don't have enough of that already, apparently," he remarked dryly. Kyrie rolled her eyes.

"To Mr and Mrs Watson." Sherlock started reading the first card, a bit fast though. He probably just wanted to be done with it. "... so sorry I'm unable to be with you on your special day. Good luck and best wishes, Mike Stamford," he said while occasionally glancing at the happy couple.

Mary and John aw'ed at the same time, moved by their absent friend's gesture.

"To John and Mary," Sherlock continued to the next card, "All good wishes for your special day. With love and many big…" He stopped talking abruptly. Mary grinned up at him. "... big sss-squishy cuddles, from Stella and Ted," Sherlock continued, looking slightly aghast at the wording. He blinked his eyes a few times.

Kyrie could hear Greg chuckling all the over at the top table. She looked up to flash him a cheeky grin, when she noticed the look on Molly's face. Face dipped a bit, glancing up at Sherlock from between her eyelashes, her coy little smile, her little gasp. Kyrie scowled a bit. She should be looking at Tom that way! Not Sherlock!

"Mary – lots of love..." He paused again before breathing out an exasperated sounding 'Oh'.

John and Mary looked up at him.

"Yeah?" John said, with a wicked grin on his face, forcing Sherlock to continue.

"... poppet..." Sherlock said appalled, loudly sounding the T at the end of the word. Mary and John chuckled as his obvious discomfort.

"... Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from CAM."

Mary's face fell hearing that name. Hm, how odd, even Kyrie had a thoughtful look on her face hearing that name. CAM, all capitals so most likely not short for Camille or something. CAM... C.A.M. Initials? He shook his head.

"Wish your family could have seen this." Sherlock quickly finished reading that particular telegram.

"Hey," John softly said to his wife, taking her hand in his for comfort. "Hmm?"

"Yep," she tried to smile at him, but it was a bit shaky.

Sherlock started to read through the telegrams, obviously feeling that a bit of censoring was in order.

"Um..." He looked at the next card. "Special day," he said, dropping the card on the table, "... very special day." He dropped that one too and quickly flicked through the remaining telegrams, while giving a short summary. "Love... Love... Love... love... lo... bit of a theme – you get the general gist. People are basically _fond_." He finished reading the cards in a wry tone.

His remark elicited a chuckle from a few of the attending guests.

"John Watson," Sherlock said. He looked down at his friend and then gestured at him with his hand. Just in case there were people present who had no idea who he was talking about. Kyrie slyly tried to cover her smile with her hand.

" _My friend_ , John Watson," Sherlock said. He then looked down for a bit, as if he didn't quite know how to continue. Suddenly an idea seemed to spark in his head.

"John," Sherlock said again, sounding a bit more sure of himself this time.

"Yeah, that's me," John said with a cheeky grin. Sherlock frowned at him while more people started to chuckle.

"When John first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused," Sherlock continued, motioning the guests to remain quiet with his hands.

Kyrie snorted and promptly received a gentle kick against her leg. When she looked up at Sherlock, he sent her a warning glare. She bit her lip in an attempt to keep from bursting out in a fit of giggles... She knew where this was going!


	50. The Best Man

**A/N Thank you all for reviewing! I just got home after work and I picked up my daugthers. So, this is just a quick update to the story! Please leave a review for me, they make me happy and smile! Enjoy this chapter!**

 **SSS**

 _Kyrie took off her coat and hung it up. She sauntered into the kitchen and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Sherlock standing there._

" _Ah, Kyrie. You're back. What was that noise downstairs?"_

 _Kyrie stared at him slack-jawed. He was standing near the kitchen table, dressed in his camel coloured dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, wearing a pair of safety glasses while holding an eyeball with a pair of tweezers. He was holding a lit blowtorch near to the optic nerve that dangled behind it._

" _Er... that was Mrs Hudson... laughing..."_

" _Sounded like she was torturing an owl," Sherlock said, moving the flame away from the eyeball._

" _Yeah... Well, it was laughter."_

" _Could have been both," he said with a chuckle._

" _Why are you roasting an eyeball?" she asked, not really sure she actually wanted to know the answer._

 _Sherlock sighed. "Just occupying myself," he said, before he threw back his head and sighed dramatically. "Sometimes, it's so-o-o hard not smoking"_

 _The eyeball slipped from between the tweezers and dropped into his mug of tea on the table with a little splash. They both looked at it. Sherlock unmoved, Kyrie nauseated._

" _Good morning!"_

 _They both looked up when John suddenly appeared in the kitchen. He took in Sherlock's appearance and gave him an odd look._

" _Um, busy?" he asked._

" _Nope," Kyrie said, still staring at the eyeball tea. "Sherlock was just being himself... trying not to smoke... so, he roasted an eyeball... then dropped it into his tea."_

" _Good to see things haven't changed much around here," John said with a humoured smile. "Mind if I interrupt?"_

 _Sherlock tossed the tweezers on the table and gestured at the chair at the end of the table. "Oh, be our guest."_

 _He turned off the blowtorch and set it aside as John walked over to pull back the chair from the table. Sherlock picked up his mug and offered it to his friend._

" _Tea?" he asked with a grin._

" _Er..." John said with a smile, shaking a hand to decline the tempting offer._

" _Sherlock, don't be gross!" Kyrie told him off. He sent her a sly grin before he set the mug down on the table so he could take off the glasses._

" _So," John started as he sat down. "The big question."_

 _Sherlock turned to face him while Kyrie pulled over the other chair to sit down. Dressed in a pair of skinnies, she brought up her right knee and rested it against the table top._

" _Mm-hm?" Sherlock said._

 _John folded his hands on the table and looked up at his friend. "The best man," he said._

" _The best man?" Sherlock echoed the words._

" _What do you think?"_

" _Billy Kincaid," Sherlock answered immediately, without even thinking._

" _Sorry, what?" John said, a puzzled look on his face._

" _Billy Kincaid, the Camden Garrotter," Sherlock explained in rapid fire speech, "Best man I ever knew. Vast contributions to charity, never disclosed. Personally managed to save three hospitals from closure and ran the best and safest children's homes in north England."_

 _Kyrie groaned and John smiled at her in sympathy before he rubbed his fingers over his eyes._

 _Sherlock grimaced a bit. "Ye-es, every now and again there'd be some garrottings,_ _ **but**_ _stacking up the lives saved against the garrottings, on balance I'd say..."_

" _Sherlock," Kyrie interrupted him. "Remember what we talked about earlier?"_

 _He looked up at her in surprise and furrowed his brows for a moment. "Oh! You mean that talk about morals and ethics?"_

" _Yes!" she said._

" _I dunno. I wasn't listening. I stopped listening the moment you said the words 'morals' and 'ethics'. I muted you. I tend to do that when you start talking and stuff comes out of your mouth that is neither educational nor intelligent. You can imagine I've got Mrs Hudson on semi-permanent mute."_

 _Kyrie stared at him in shock while John made a few spluttering noises, trying really hard not to guffaw._

" _How are you still married to this guy?" he said while tears of laughter appeared in his eyes._

" _Beats me," Kyrie replied sulkily, earning her a look from Sherlock that promised her he'd remind her later. She quickly turned her head, trying to hide her blush._

" _For my wedding, Sherlock," John explained. "For me. I need a best man."_

" _Oh, right," Sherlock said, slightly abashed._

" _Maybe not a garrotter."_

" _Gavin?" Sherlock suggested._

 _John drew in a breath. "Who?" He then asked._

" _Gavin Lestrade? He's a man, and good at it," Sherlock said, shrugging his shoulders._

" _Oh, so you've moved on to Gavin now? Maybe in a few years you will actually move on to his real name. Though it will probably be by accident," Kyrie muttered darkly, still feeling a bit offended at Sherlock's words._

" _Oh, shut up," Sherlock said dismissively._

" _Sherlock, I'm warning you!" Kyrie said, her voice minatory. "Tread carefully or I_ _ **will**_ _pour that eyeball tea down your throat!"_

 _He merely arched a brow at her in bemusement._

" _It's Greg, Sherlock. And he's not my best friend."_

" _Oh, Mike Stamford, I see," Sherlock replied in sudden understanding. "Well, he's nice, um, though I'm not sure how well he'd cope with all..."_

" _No, Mike's great," John cut him off, "But_ _ **he's**_ _not my best friend."_

 _Sherlock opened his mouth as if he wanted to bring forth another suggestion, but his face betrayed that his mind had just run a blank._

" _Look, Sherlock, this is the biggest and_ _most_ _important day of my life."_

" _ **We-ell**_ _..._ _" Sherlock started, making a face._

" _No, it_ _ **is**_ _!" John cut him off again and pointed his finger at him, warning him not to argue about the subject. "It_ _ **is**_ _, and I want to be up there with the_ _ **three**_ _people that I love and care about..._ _ **most**_ _in the world"_

" _Yes," Sherlock said._

 _John nodded at him, probably thinking that Sherlock would by now realise. Kyrie grinned when she saw the look on his face... he was waiting for John to enlighten him about who precisely these three people were._

" _So, Mary Morstan..."_

" _Yes."_

 _Oh good, he got that one._

" _Kyrie, your wife... who will be Mary's matron of honour..." John paused, looking pointedly at Sherlock._

" _Yes."_

 _Wow, he even got that one! Progress!_

" _... and..." John said, nodding at Sherlock, who still didn't have a clue._

 _John sighed, rolling his eyes "... you."_

 _The only sign that Sherlock had actually heard him, was the fact he blinked his eyes rapidly several times. Other than that, he didn't move or react._

Sherlock's voice pulled her back to the present. "I confess at first I didn't realise he was asking me. When finally I understood, I expressed to him that I was both flattered and... surprised."

John twitched with his mouth while Kyrie arched a brow at him. According to her memory... that's not what had happened...

 _Sherlock stood there, frozen solid, staring blankly in John's direction without actually seeing him. John in the mean time, tapped his foot patiently, while Kyrie studied her nails. She never did that, but she'd seen other women do it in similar situations. All she saw were her nails. They weren't that interesting. So, she looked back at Sherlock._

"I explained to him that I'd never expected this request and I was a little daunted in the face of it."

Kyrie smirked. That was one way to put it.

 _Sherlock still stood there, motionless._  
 _"Sherlock," John said, trying to get his attention. But Sherlock didn't respond._

"I nonetheless promised that I would do my very best to accomplish a task which was – for me – as demanding and difficult as any I had ever contemplated. Additionally, I thanked him for the trust he'd placed in me..."

Kyrie leaned forward, as did John, and she saw by the look on his face that John too did not remember it like that.

"... and indicated that I was, in some ways, very _close_ to being... moved by it."

 _Sherlock still stood there, fixed in place, staring ahead of him with a blank look on his face. The awkward silence couldn't have lasted for more than a few seconds, but the seconds seemed to stretch into minutes._

" _John," Kyrie said wryly. "Bit more careful next time? I think you broke him."_

" _How much more careful did you want me to be? I practically had to spell it out for him!"_

" _You still broke him. It's on you."_

"It later transpired that I had said _none_ of this out loud."

Kyrie and John started to laugh and some of the guests joined in as well. The thing about Sherlock... he could be extremely witty and funny, without that actually being his intention, making him even funnier. Proof was the slightly befuddled look on his face when they started to laugh.

 _Sherlock's brain suddenly seemed to reboot again. He gasped a bit, swallowed deeply and narrowed his eyes a bit. When he was able to refocus again, he looked at John._

" _So, in fact..." he started slowly, his brain not yet cooperating fully with him. "You-you mean..."_

" _Yes?" John urged him to continue while nodding at him._

 _Kyrie looked from one man to the other, not even trying to hide her interest in this diversion._

" _I'm your..."_

 _John nodded_

" _... best..."_

 _John nodded again. "... man," he then finished for Sherlock, while at the same time Sherlock said,_  
 _"... friend?"_

 _He said it in a voice that betrayed his surprise. Kyrie had to suppress the urge to fling her arms around him to give him a cuddle._

" _Yeah, 'course you are," John said as if that should be obvious to him._

 _Honestly, it should have been. On the other hand... This was Sherlock, so any tender hearted feelings like love and friendship were anything_ _ **but**_ _obvious to him._

' _Course... you're my best friend," John said to him with a broad and earnest smile._

 _Sherlock didn't say anything. He groped around with his hand and, when he found his mug, he absently picked it up and raised it towards his mouth._

 _Kyrie's jaw dropped open as John looked on with interest, as Sherlock took a long audible, slurping, sip from his tea... and then swallowed. Kyrie nearly gagged._

" _Well, how was that?" John asked him._

 _Sherlock smacked and licked his lips, contemplating the question for a moment before he nodded his head. "Surprisingly okay."_

 _Kyrie heard a little bubbling noise coming from the mug. She suspected it was the eyeball that had resurfaced in the tea and she pulled a face in disgust._

" _So you'll have to make a speech, of course."_

 _Sherlock went offline again, staring blankly at John._

Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket and cleared his throat while taking out a handful of cue cards. He looked at each one, setting them onto the table after reading them, while softly muttering to himself. "Done that... Done that... Done that bit... Done that bit... Done that bit... Hmm..."

He didn't seem to mind that the guests were waiting for him to get on with his speech.

Finally, he looked up at the guests again, before he turned to John. "I'm afraid, John, I can't congratulate you."

Mary, John and Kyrie looked up at him in surprise. Sherlock turned his gaze back to the guests.

"All emotions, and in particular _love_ , stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things.  
A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and _sentimental_ in this ailing and morally compromised world."

Kyrie felt the blood drain from her face. This was NOT the speech she'd heard him practice. She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She felt he was about to insult every single person in this room! Including her!

When she looked around, she could already see some guests starting to look uncomfortable, not liking this weird direction of the best man's speech. Even Greg and Molly looked at Sherlock with a look of stunned horror on their faces.

"Today we honour the death-watch beetle that is the doom of our society and, in time – one feels certain – our entire species."

The only thing missing, was a chorus of chirping crickets.

"But anyway..." he said, glancing down at his cards. "... let's talk about John."

"Please." John cleared his throat and smiled awkwardly, briefly sharing a look with both Kyrie and Mary.

Sherlock raised his eyes towards the guests again. "If I burden myself with a little help-mate during my adventures, it is not out of sentiment or caprice – it is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me."

Kyrie smiled a bit and noticed Greg quietly laughing as well.

"Indeed." Sherlock continued his speech. "Any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes, in truth, from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides."

John sighed deeply, Kyrie groaned in dismay and Mary frowned a bit.

"It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favour exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day. There is a certain analogy there, I feel."

Kyrie's lips parted in shock and embarrassment. Even Molly sent her a look of pity. Molly for heaven's sake! The woman who'd been crushing on her husband for years. She was probably not crushing so hard this moment!

"... and contrast is, after all, God's own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation..."

Kyrie hardly dared to look at the vicar. She did anyway. He smiled.

"... or it _would_ be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot."

And there it was.

Kyrie looked around. Yep. That was everyone present offended, in just a few lines of speech. That _had_ to be some kind of record.

Mary face-palmed and John tried to hide his face in his clasped hands. The smile on the vicar's face was replaced by a grim look and more and more affronted guests started to mutter amongst themselves.

Sherlock seemed to notice the slight change of atmosphere. "The point I'm _trying_ to make..." he started to explain. "Is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet."

He looked over at the vicar. "I am dismissive of the virtuous..."

He gestured at Kyrie. "I am unaware of the beautiful and graceful,"

Finally, he turned towards Mary and John. "... and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend."

Suddenly, the guests fell silent again, they were hanging on to his every word.

"Never expected to be anybody's husband either, for that matter. That sort of happened... Imagine my own surprise," Sherlock muttered and Kyrie wondered if he was talking to himself right now.

"I certainly did not expect to be the best friend of one of the bravest and kindest and wisest human beings I ever had the good fortune of knowing. By some stroke of sheer dumb luck, two amazing people appeared in my life. I befriended one," Sherlock said while gesturing at John.

Mary smiled proudly at her husband and several guests made appreciative and touched noises.

"And I married the other," he said gesturing at Kyrie. She smiled up at him through misty eyes.

"John, I think you will agree I am a ridiculous man..."

John smiled and nodded in agreement.

"... to which Kyrie, my wife, can attest as well. John, as I told Kyrie, long ago during our trip to Dartmoor... I am redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship, the unwavering care and support of my wife, and the light of you both that shines like a beacon."

Kyrie had to wipe away a stray tear. First insulting everyone present, before moving them all to tears... in one single speech. Definitely a new record!

"But, as I'm apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion."

He looked down for a brief moment, before gave a small smile.

"Actually, now I can."


	51. Taking them out for a bit, run them

**A/N I hope there are a few Jonathan Creek lover's reading this story! 'Cause I added a little twist to 'The Elephant in the room'!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Mollykins really just can't help herself... Yeah I really do like her in the series, but she's also really getting on Kyrie's nerves in this story and the bashing just... kind of happens! I'm glad you like the rework of the speech. It felt a bit OOC but, since he was already revealing more of his personal views in that episode anyway, I felt I could get away with it.**

 **Katt96 Yeah, he's adorable! So many cute moments still to come!**

 **Thewickedprincess You will have to wait a bit for the belt to reveal its little secret. I'm glad you liked Kyrie's reactions ;-)**

 **DreamonAlina Aw, I'm glad you liked the speech. Here, have a tissue -throws entire box-**

 **Artemis7448 I hope this chapter will put a smile on your face again!**

 **Enjoy, my dears!**

SSS

The guests started to murmur again. This new direction of his speech was apparently received much better by all. John and Mary smiled.

"Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss..."

He leaned closer to John. "... so sorry again about that last one..." He straightened up again and turned to look down at Kyrie.

"... deeply sorry..." he told her, softly.

Their eyes locked for a brief moment and she saw in his, again, the deep regret.

"I already forgave you, remember?" she whispered.

"You may have to remind me again, later," he whispered back. The look he gave her made her heartbeat go into overdrive.

"Anyway," he said, turning his attention back to Mary and John. "Know this... Today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved, with the help of this woman here who has the great misfortune of finding herself married to me..."

 _Or the great fortune_ , Kyrie thought to herself as she smiled up at him.

"In short, the three people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary and Kyrie as well when I say we will _never_ let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."

His words had reduced most guests to tears. Mrs Hudson was crying silently into her handkerchief, a few men dabbed at their eyes with various pieces of cloth... one even used the bloody tablecloth!

Molly too wiped at the moist that was pooling in her eyes with her serviette. The look of pity was replaced by a look of longing whenever she looked in Sherlock's direction and a look of helpless envy whenever Molly briefly glanced over at Kyrie.

If Molly hadn't been so weird in her attitude towards her, Kyrie would have been able to sympathise with her... to some degree. She knew from experience that, once Sherlock had managed to get under your skin, it was close to impossible to get rid of him, or to ignore the emotions that came with it. Right now, she felt like blowing her a raspberry.

She smiled when she could hear John whisper to Mary, "If I try and hug him, stop me."

"Certainly not," she assured him and patted his arm.

Seemingly unaware of the emotions he'd managed to evoke, Sherlock moved on to his next card.

"Ah, yes. Now on to some funny stories about John..." He suddenly trailed off when he looked up, all ready to start some funny anecdotes, when he noticed most of his guests were a blubbering mess.

He never did like outbursts of emotion. It made him feel awkward because he couldn't relate and he always had to waste time, waiting for those silly emotions to subside before he could finally partake in the situation again.

"What's wrong? What happened?"Sherlock started rambling again in his rapid fire speech. "Why are you all doing that? John?" He turned to look at his friend as if he held the answer. Kyrie knew he could get a bit flustered when people did not respond the way he expected them to.

"Did I do it wrong?" he asked John, sounding a bit self-conscious.

John promptly got to his feet. "No, you didn't. Come here," he said, his voice a bit gruff with emotion. He then caught Sherlock unawares and pulled him into a tight hug. The guests broke into applause uttering more 'aw's and 'oh's' while Sherlock stiffened under this sudden display of emotion.

Though Kyrie would have loved nothing more than to get up and give him a hug and a kiss herself, she knew he would not appreciate her making an exhibit of themselves... or him.

"I haven't finished yet," Sherlock stated.

"Yeah, I know, I know," John said to him. Sherlock held up the next card and tried to read it, as John slowly released him from his hug. "So, on to some funny stories..."

"Can you – can you wait 'til I sit down?" John interrupted him, clapping him on his back.

Sherlock conceded with a quick nod of his head. He had no choice but to ride out the applause. He looked terribly uncomfortable gaining all this kind of attention. When John sat down, he cleared his throat in a silent cue for his guests. The guests finally quieted down.

"So, on to some funny stories about John," Sherlock tried again. John started to chuckle but a lot of guests were still affected by Sherlock's unexpected moving speech.

"If you could all just cheer up a bit, that would..." Sherlock said, sounding a bit annoyed. The guests immediately started to laugh again. Dear Lord, he was playing them like a fiddle!

"... be better."

When Kyrie noticed the soft expression of silent longing on Molly's face, Kyrie couldn't help but look back at her with a mixture of pity and annoyance. Someone really needed to help her out of the fantasy of Sherlock potentially falling in love with her.

Molly's crush on her husband kept her from moving on to something real, and at the moment, something real was sitting right next to her.

Though Kyrie didn't particularly like Molly at the moment, she did want Molly to find happiness in a love that was actually attainable to her. Also, she didn't like the prospect of having to watch Molly nearly swoon at the sight of her husband for the rest of their 'acquaintance'. Especially now that she and Sherlock were testing the waters of romance themselves.

"On we go. So, for funny stories..." Sherlock started as he reached down into his trouser pocket and took out his phone. "... one has to look no further than John's _blog_." He grinned as he held up his phone.

John chuckled and leaned in towards Mary. "Here we go," he said to her with a smile. Kyrie leaned over a bit and grinned at him, giving him a thumbs up.

"The record of our time together. Of course, he does tend to romanticise things a bit, but then, you know..." Sherlock slightly turned his head to look at John and Mary.

Though Kyrie couldn't see the look he sent them, she did detect the humour in his voice when he said, "... he's a romantic."

Kyrie smiled. That was true about John!

"Though I probably should be very grateful my wife decided to record our time together by scrap-booking instead of writing a blog. I have a feeling she would be even worse!" He turned his head to give her a humoured smirk.

The guests started to chuckle again but immediately quieted down when he gave them a look.

"We've tackled some strange cases..." Sherlock then continued his story and summed up a few examples. "The Hollow Client, the Poison Giant..."

Kyrie smiled at his words. They were cases John had minutely written about in his blog.

"We've had some frustrating cases. 'Touching' cases," Sherlock told the guests, rolling his eyes.  
"... and of course I have to mention the elephant in the room."

Kyrie guffawed, earning her disapproving looks from both Sherlock as the guests. She looked over at Janine and winked at her. She couldn't help herself. They had both been around for that one. Actually, it had been a joke, all designed by Kyrie, Janine and her older sister Kathryn.

She had complained to Janine about Sherlock and how he always claimed to be able to keep a confident composure, even when confronted with the unexpected.

An idea struck, a plan was designed and a lot of strings were pulled... Kyrie didn't even _want_ to know how Kathryn had so many... _unconventional_ connections.

The end result was an actual elephant, obtained through one of Kathryn's friends owning a travelling circus, planted in what was supposed to look like an ordinary room, but was actually a clever set design, created by one of Kathryn's other friends... a designer of illusions for a big stage magician.

Though this Jonathan Creek guy seemed a bit of an odd fish, with his aura of simplicity that was completely belied by his ingenuity and lateral thinking ability, Kyrie thought that Kathryn might have a secret crush on him.

Via a hidden camera, Kyrie, Janine, Kathryn and Jonathan, had been able to monitor – and tape – every detail of the reactions of her Baker Street boys, coming face to face with an actual elephant. And... it... was... priceless!

Those looks of incomprehension on their faces... their eyes flared open as they couldn't believe what they were seeing. To Sherlock's great credit, he hadn't lost his cool composure. His back had been ramrod straight as always. He had not however, been able to prevent his lips from parting briefly in shocked surprise when the elephant loudly trumpeted, before he quickly closed his mouth again.

"So, that is the Great Sherlock Holmes," Janine had whispered. "He _is_ a handsome devil!" Kyrie lightly ribbed her and Jonathan smiled a bit tightly when Kathryn too chuckled at her younger sister's comment.

Though of course Sherlock did figure out it had been a set up and he knew she'd somehow been involved, to this day, he still didn't know how it had been done. Maybe she should invite Jonathan Creek to come over one day. Maybe arrange Kathryn to be there as well? She had an inkling that watching Creek and Sherlock, in one room, would make for a very memorable evening.

"But we want something... very particular for this special day, don't we?" Sherlock told the guests. He briefly looked down at his phone before he raised his eyes again. "The Bloody Guardsman."

Kyrie's mind drifted back to that particular day and she smiled fondly. It was when she and Mary had decided that both of their boys needed a bit of reassurance. Though they tried to not outwardly show it, the women knew the men well enough to realise they were terrified of the change the marriage would bring.

They both needed to understand that, though the couples would each live in their respective homes, the boys could still work together and solve cases together. That day, they were more pre-occupied with planning the wedding and Mary and Kyrie had decided the boys needed a break from the wedding stuff...

 _Sherlock was standing in the living room, staring at his wall of information behind the sofa. For once, the wall was not covered in 'people to monitor to solve a murder' stuff but rather 'things we need to do to plan a wedding' stuff._

 _John was sitting in his old armchair looking at his phone, while Mary and Kyrie were sitting at the dinner table, plotting all kinds of wedding things, they even had a 3D cardboard model of the reception venue._

" _Need to work on your half of the church, Mary. Looking a bit thin," Sherlock said, turning around so he could look at her._

" _Oh," Mary said, looking up. "Orphan's lot. Friends, that's all I have. Lots of friends," she said, winking at Kyrie._

 _Sherlock had already moved on to a different topic in his mind. "You should have the organ music to begin at precisely 11.48," he muttered._

" _But the rehearsal's not for another two weeks. Just calm down," she admonished him._

" _Calm? I_ _ **am**_ _calm," Sherlock balked at the very notion that he wasn't, "I'm_ _ **extremely**_ _calm._

" _Let's get back to the reception, come on," Kyrie prodded him._

" _Kyrie, you think I picked the right dishes for the menu?" Mary asked._

" _Yes, you did! The menu is lovely and you've even given a choice. Fish, meat or vegetarian. It's lovely!"_

" _Aw, thanks, sweetie!"_

 _Sherlock walked over to the table and Mary handed him an RSVP card. "John's cousin. Top table?"_

 _Sherlock briefly glanced at tit. "Hmm. Hates you. Can't even bear to think about you._

 _Kyrie and Mary both looked up at him. "Seriously?" Mary asked._

" _Second class post, cheap card..." He sniffed and pulled a face, "... bought at a petrol station. Look at the stamp... three attempts at licking. She's obviously unconsciously retaining saliva."_

" _Ah," Mary said, exchanging a look with Kyrie. "Let's stick her by the bogs. Sorry John!"_

" _No prob," he muttered._

" _Nice!" Kyrie winked at Mary as Sherlock said, "Oh yes."_

 _He then sat down to join them at the dinner table. Mary immediately leaned closer towards him. "Who else hates me?" she asked, a mischievous glint lighting her eyes. Sherlock promptly handed her a sheet of paper with a long list of names on it._

 _Kyrie snorted._

" _Oh great – thanks!" Mary said, looking at the names of the people who only_ _ **pretended**_ _to like her._

" _Priceless painting nicked. Looks interesting," John suddenly said, still looking at his phone._

 _Mary and Kyrie looked at the amount of paperwork on the table._

" _Table four..."_

" _Done," Sherlock stated._

" _My husband is three people," John said with a chuckle._

" _Table five," Mary said._

 _Sherlock looked at the list. "Major James Sholto. Who he?"_

" _Oh, John's old commanding officer. I don't think he's coming," Mary explained._

" _He'll be there," John said from his seat._

" _Well, he needs to RSVP, then," Mary said._

" _He'll be there," John insisted._

" _Mmm…"_

" _My husband is three people," John read aloud from his phone. "It's interesting. Says he has three distinct patterns of moles on his skin."_

 _Sherlock raised himself to his feet. "Identical triplets – one in half a million births. Solved it without leaving the flat," he said in his rapid fire way. "Now, serviettes."_

 _He walked over to the coffee table and squatted down. He reached under it and pulled out a tray with two differently folded serviettes. He gestured at them and looked up expectantly, awaiting their input._

" _Swan, or Sydney Opera House?"_

" _Where'd you learn to do that?!" Mary asked in surprise._

 _Kyrie grinned seeing a faint hint of pinkness stain his cheeks. She knew exactly where and how he learned to do that. She had caught him red-handed, so to speak._

" _Many unexpected skills required in the field of criminal investigation..." He tried to smooth talk his way out of this one, but Mary just beamed at him._

" _Fibbing, Sherlock," she said._

" _I once broke an alibi by demonstrating the exact severity of..." Sherlock continued._

" _I'm not John. I can tell when you're fibbing. Also, Kyrie will tell me anyway and from the look on her face... She knows_ _ **exactly**_ _how you acquired this skill."_

" _Okay – I learned it on YouTube," he admitted begrudgingly._

" _My husband, a man of many talents!" Kyrie stated proudly, winking at Sherlock. He gave her a crooked smile._

" _Opera House, please," Mary requested._

 _Kyrie pouted. "Aw! I like the swan! It's so pretty!"_

" _It's Mary's wedding," Sherlock stated. "_ _ **Her**_ _opinion is the one that counts in this."_

 _Kyrie crumpled up a sheet of paper and threw it at his head. "Rude!" she said._

 _He shrugged his shoulders. "It's still true."_

 _Mary grinned at the two before she suddenly leaned to the side to reach into her trouser pocket._

" _Ooh, hang on. I'm buzzing."_

 _She took out her phone and lifted it to her ear. "Hello?" she asked, listened for a second and promptly got to her feet. "Oh, hi, Beth!"_

 _John looked up from his phone and watched Mary disappearing through the doors of the kitchen._

 _Kyrie bit her lip, trying not to smile._

" _Actually, if that's Beth, it's probably for me too. Hang on," John excused himself and followed his fiancée to the kitchen._

" _Could they be even more conspicuous about it?" Sherlock asked as he lowered himself to the floor cross-legged, right in front of the coffee table. "What are they up to?"_

" _Oh, they just want to argue in peace I guess. Mary is trying to convince John to work a case with you," Kyrie said casually._

" _Mm?" Sherlock asked, sounding distracted._

 _Kyrie rolled her eyes. She was supposed to work him, while Mary was working John. It would make things easier if he actually paid attention to what she was saying._

" _You know John loves Mary and he's thrilled to marry her. He's also afraid of the change. He's worried he'll lose his best friend and that you will stop working cases with him. Mary is trying to convince him it's nonsense to think like that."_

" _It_ _ **is**_ _nonsense," Sherlock muttered. "Of course I won't stop working cases with him!"_

" _Well, prove it to him then! When they get back and John asks you to take a case, take one."_

" _What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously when he didn't reply._

" _Nothing," he said quickly, too quickly. Kyrie looked up. Her mouth dropped open in surprise._

 _Just that moment, John walked back into the living room and immediately stopped dead in his tracks._

 _Sherlock, who had his head propped up on one hand, lifted his head to briefly glance at John. He gestured at the small collection of folded serviettes folded in the Sydney Opera House shape in front of him. There were seven neatly set on the coffee table, with at least ten or so more strewn around the floor._

" _That just sort of... happened," Sherlock offered in terms of explanation._

 _Kyrie smiled lovingly at him. Helping to plan with the wedding... he took the responsibility very seriously and performed his tasks with gusto. It brought out a rarely seen side of him that only made her love him even more than she already did. If that was even possible. Sometimes, her heart felt so completely filled with love, it physically hurt to the point where she thought it would burst._

 _Though there were also times he could be so incredibly annoying, callous and dispassionate, she could just throttle him._

 _John shot a nervous glance back at the kitchen, where Mary was still talking to 'Beth'. Well, John was here, on his own, hopefully Mary had been able to bring her point across. He kind of looked as if he didn't have a clue how to begin. Kyrie decided to help him out a bit._

" _Aren't you tired of all this wedding stuff yet, John?" Kyrie asked while holding up the different coloured pieces of fabric._

 _John licked his lips nervously._

" _You look like you could use a break."_

 _Sherlock raised himself from the floor when John pulled back the chair where Mary had been sitting and sat down._

" _I could, actually," he admitted._

 _Sherlock briefly looked in the direction of the kitchen before he sat down as well._

" _Kyrie, no offence, I know this is as close as you can get to a real wedding... as long as you need to stay married to Sherlock of course... So, I understand why you are enjoying this and like to be so involved in everything," John started rambling._

 _Kyrie briefly exchanged looks with Sherlock. John was right. This was as close to a real wedding she would ever get. She was, in a way, pretending she was not just helping Mary plan her wedding, but also her own. Though she wasn't very sorry that she never had a wedding reception of her own, she had to admit she would have loved to have the chance to wear a real wedding gown._

 _Sherlock had a questioning look in his eyes. She didn't know what he was thinking, but she could make a guess. Kyrie smiled brightly at him, knowing she wouldn't trade him for anything in the world. Certainly not for a dress you'd get to wear for one day._

 _The look in his eyes softened and he smiled back at her._

" _Look, I've smelled eighteen different perfumes; I've sampled..." he paused, looking away to think,_  
 _"... nine different slices of cake which all tasted identical. I like the bridesmaids in purple..."_

" _Lilac," Sherlock corrected him._

" _... lilac," John echoed._

" _Mine will be violet," Kyrie said with a dreamy smile._

" _Obviously," Sherlock stated. "There should be some distinction between the matron of honour and the other bridesmaids. Usually accomplished by a slightly different colour or even the style of dress. Mary picked violet because she felt it would compliment your eyes."_

" _Do you?" she asked him with a smile. He quickly looked away though and John cleared his throat._

" _Um, there are no more decisions left to make. I don't even understand the decisions that we have made. I'm faking opinions and it's exhausting, so please, before she comes back..."_

 _He glanced over his shoulder in Mary's direction and activated the screen of his phone. He cleared his phone and shoved it near Sherlock's face. "... pick something," John ordered him._

 _Sherlock's eyes flickered down to the screen a few times._

" _Anything. Pick one," John insisted._

" _Pick what?" he asked confused._

 _John blinked at him and Kyrie stifled a laugh. Ah, for a man who claimed he was never – well, almost never – confused, he sure looked absolutely adorable when he was just that._

 _John chuckled. "A case! Your Inbox is bursting. Just... get me out of here."_

 _Sherlock glanced at Kyrie who just sent him a pointed look and nodded slightly in John's direction._

" _You want to go out on a case? N-now? Are you sure?"_

" _Please, Sherlock, for me," John pleaded. Sherlock cast a quick glance in the direction of the kitchen and took John's phone._

" _Don't you worry about a thing. I'll get you out of this," he said quietly. "Kyrie understands completely, she won't breath a word."_

 _He started scrolling through the messages that were posted in his website. It didn't take him long to find something that piqued his interest._

" _Oh," he suddenly said before he read one of the messages aloud. "Dear Mr Holmes," he started. "My name is Bainbridge. I'm a Private in Her Majesty's Household Guard. I'm writing to you about a personal matter..."_

" _It usually is personal, isn't it?" Kyrie said. John shushed her and motioned Sherlock to continue._

" _... one I don't care to bring before my superiors – it would sound so trivial – but I think someone's stalking me. I'm used to tourists, as it's part of the job, but this is different. Someone's watching me."_

" _Creepy... Oh, sorry," Kyrie said seeing the look on John's face._

" _He's taking pictures of me every day. Don't want to mention it to the major, but it's really preying on my mind."_

 _Sherlock fell silent, a look of quiet contemplation on his face as he stared at the phone. "Uniform fetishist. 'All the nice girls like a soldier.'"_

" _It's 'sailor'," John corrected him. And Bainbridge thinks his stalker is a bloke."_

 _Sherlock looked at the phone again, but didn't say anything._

" _Let's go and investigate. Please?"_

" _Elite Guard," Sherlock read aloud._

" _Forty enlisted men and officers."_

" _Why this particular Welsh Guard? Curious."_

" _Now you're talking!" John replied with a grin._

 _Sherlock handed him back his phone, "Okay," he said. "Let's go."_

 _They both got up and walked towards the doors when Mary came back from the kitchen._

" _Bye," she said into the phone, smiling and cast a quizzical look at John._

" _Er, we're just going to... I need, um, Sherlock to help me choose some, er, socks," John said as Sherlock simultaneously said, "...ties."_

 _Kyrie rose to her feet with a broad smile on her face and went to stand next to Sherlock. She lightly patted his back for his attempt. Hiding herself a bit behind him, she winked at Mary who looked from one of the boys to the other._

" _Why don't we go with socks?" she said pleasantly._

" _Yeah," John agreed._

" _I mean, you've got to get the right ones."_

 _Kyrie looked down to hide her smile._

" _Exactly – to go with my..."_

" _... tie," Sherlock tried again when John at the same time said, "... outfit."_

" _That'll take a while, right?" Mary asked John. He pointed towards the kitchen._

" _My coat in there?" he asked._

" _Yes," Mary said and walked a few steps after him._

 _Sherlock looked down at Kyrie. "Just going to take him out for a bit – run him," he said quietly._

 _Kyrie placed her hand on his chest and looked up at him with a smile. "I know," she said, her voice tender and full of warmth._

 _Sherlock beamed down at her._

 _Kyrie patted him on his chest. "Thank you, for finding him a case. He really needs to know things won't have to change."_

" _Mm," he said, glancing up to see that Mary was pre-occupied with John and promptly stole a brief kiss from her lips._

" _Come on, Sherlock," John called him from kitchen doorway._

 _Sherlock pulled back from her. "Coming!" he yelled back._

 _He then turned and walked to the door of the living door. He turned to look back at her and gave her a double thumbs up, while giving her a meaningful grin. Kyrie smiled broadly and gave him a double thumbs up back. From the corner of her eyes, she saw that Mary was doing the exact same thing with John._

 _When the boys loudly bounded down the stairs, Mary and Kyrie gave each other one look, before they burst out laughing._


	52. Hen Night

**A/N Princelivy Thank you! Don't worry. Dinner is coming. LOL!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 That will be quite tricky to write. I'm not sure which way I'll go yet. But, Sherlock will end up on drugs. He will end up in the hospital because I need that to happen to trigger something else. Though I agree Mary would normally not ask such a thing... She also knows it's the only thing that will ultimately reunite the two friends. And, for better or worse, they do need each other.**

 **Katt9 If I could, I would keep him myself!**

 **DreamonAlina Yeah I really like the two. They are really good friends.**

SSS

Kyrie shook her head, smiling at the memory. That was a fun day. Mary was absolutely wonderful and a great addition to their little – slightly dysfunctional – family. She turned her attention back to Sherlock, who was still in the middle of telling the story about 'The Bloody Guardsman'.

He told the guests how he had sneaked past the guards, using one of their fur bearskin caps, because the sergeant wouldn't let him see his new client. Inside the barracks, he was able to find Major Reed. When the duty sergeant was sent to get Bainbridge, he quickly came back to inform him that Bainbridge was dead.

At first, Major Reed wanted to pin the death on Sherlock. But Sherlock pointed out that Bainbridge had been found in the shower with a stab wound. When they were brought to him, he was still wet, still had shampoo in his hair. He was stabbed when he got into the shower. When he was found, the cubicle was locked from the inside. It had been broken open to get to Bainbridge. It couldn't have been a suicide either, because no weapon had been found. The killer had taken it with him.

So, a man had been stabbed to death. No murder weapon to be found. Door locked from the inside. Only one way in or out of there. And that's when they found out. Well, that's when John found out... that Bainbridge wasn't dead... he was still alive!

"Private Bainbridge had just come off guard duty. He'd stood there for hours, plenty of people watching, nothing apparently wrong," Sherlock recapped what he had told so far. "He came off duty and within minutes was nearly dead from a wound in his stomach, but there was no weapon. Where did it go? Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to consider this... a murderer who can walk through walls, a weapon that can vanish – but in all of this there is only one element which can be said to be truly remarkable. Would anyone like to make a guess?"

Sherlock looked at the guests in quiet anticipation. No one there felt the need to venture a guess. Who would even dare in his presence? Some of the guests fidgeted in their seats and sent each other slightly awkward looks.

"Come on, come on, there is actually an element of Q and A to all of this," Sherlock tried to get the guests a bit more involved. He cleared his throat, still no one offered a suggestion.

"Scotland Yard, have you got a theory?" Sherlock directed his attention to Greg.

Kyrie smiled seeing the blank look on his face. He was a great detective, really capable at his job, no matter how condescending Sherlock might act towards him, but this... playing Sherlock's game? No, he was not equipped for that.

"Yeah, you. You're a detective – broadly speaking. Got a theory?"

"Er, um, if the... uh, if the, if-if-if, if the blade was, er... propelled through the, um..." Greg stammered. He then paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. "... grating in the air vent... maybe a-a ballista or a – or a – or a catapult," Greg continued courageously. "Erm, somebody tiny could-could crawl in there."

Greg drew in a sharp breath of air. "So, yeah, we're loo... we're looking for a-a-a-a dwarf."

Kyrie tried to stifle a giggle when she noticed the blank look on Sherlock's face. He blinked. "Brilliant."

"Really?" Greg asked and he visibly perked up.

"No."

Greg lowered his head. He seemed to feel a bit embarrassed.

"Next!"

Kyrie noticed Tom leaning in to Molly, whispering something to her.

"Hello? Who was that?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

Tom looked up, his eyes wide.

"Tom," Sherlock said, inviting him to contribute his thoughts.

Molly's fiancé grimaced a bit, before he slowly stood up.

"Got a theory?" Sherlock asked him.

Kyrie pulled a face. He was a good guy, honestly. Happy-go-lucky, just a bit naive... and not too bright. He was going to make a spectacle of himself.

In the meantime, Tom swayed a bit on his feet, looking terrified. "Um... attempted suicide, with a blade made of compacted blood and bone," he started slowly. "It broke after piercing his abdomen... like a meat... dagger."

Kyrie clasped her hand in front of her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. A meat dagger? She was not the only one who found his remark amusing. Some of the guests started to snigger. Poor Molly though, she looked absolutely mortified. Kyrie hoped she would not reconsider her marriage options... Chances were she'd latch on to Sherlock again and... well... he was taken.

"A meat... dagger..." Sherlock repeated him slowly and precisely.

"Yes," poor Tom said, looking really awkward.

Though Kyrie could not hear her over the distance, Kyrie noticed how Molly ordered her fiancé to sit back down through clenched teeth.

"No," Sherlock told Tom and waited till he sat back down. He turned back to the guests. "There was _one_ feature, and _only_ one feature, of interest in the whole of this baffling case, and quite frankly it was the usual. John Watson – who, while I was trying to solve the murder – instead saved a life."

Kyrie beamed up at him and Mary laughed happily. John looked down a bit, looking slightly embarrassed, but smiled anyway.

"There _are_ mysteries worth solving and stories worth telling," Sherlock said, looking down at John. "The best and bravest man I know – and on top of that he actually knows how to do stuff."

Poor John, he was not used to all this praise. Certainly not by Sherlock, whose only praise seemed to be to not overly insult him like he did with others. He lowered his head again and chuckled a bit.

"... except wedding planning and serviettes – he's rubbish at those," Sherlock said wryly.

"True!" John admitted with a grin.

"Sweetie, John has you for that," Kyrie told Sherlock and immediately looked down, slightly embarrassed the endearment had just slipped out again. His next words made her look up at him, her lips parted in surprise.

"Thank you... my dear," he said slowly, looking right her, as if he was contemplating the sound. Apparently, it was a term of endearment he could live with, as he smiled at her after he said it. Kyrie swallowed hard and felt her cheeks flush with heat.

He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the guests. "The case itself remains the most ingenious and brilliantly-planned murder, or attempted murder, I've ever had the pleasure to encounter. The most perfect locked-room mystery of which I am aware. However, I'm not just here to praise John. I'm also here to embarrass him, so let's move on to some..."

Suddenly Greg interrupted him, "No-no, wait, so how was it... how was it done?" he asked curiously.

"How was what done?" Sherlock asked puzzled.

"The stabbing."

Sherlock briefly looked down in discomfort. "I'm afraid I don't know." He then admitted. "I didn't solve that one. That's..." he paused for a moment. "It can happen sometimes. It's very... very disappointing."

He had a reflective look on his face and just stared for a moment, then he took a breath and looked back at the guests again.

"Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night. Of course there's hours of material here, but I've cut it down to the really good bits."

Kyrie grinned. Oh Lord... Stag night...

 _Sherlock had dragged her along to Bart's, to Molly's lab, claiming he needed Molly's assistance with something. Kyrie had no idea why he wanted her to be there as well, until she realised that before... John would go with him whenever he had a crazy whim like this. She sighed, realising he just wanted the company. For him, the fact that Kyrie herself had like a thousand thing to do and organise was of little consequence._

 _Inside Molly's lab, Sherlock told Molly what he had planned for the stag night. Kyrie thought it was brilliant. Then again, she thought most of the stuff Sherlock did or said was brilliant. She shrugged her shoulders at the wayward thought. Molly, however, was less convinced._

" _Murder scenes?" Molly asked him. She turned around to look at them. "Locations of... murders?" she repeated._

" _Yeah, brilliant isn't it?" Kyrie said, feeling quite proud that Sherlock was really putting in some effort to make it a memorable stag night. Actually, she was proud he was organising a stag night, period! She never would have thought that Sherlock would consider it a worthy enough activity to waste his time on. She smiled. It proved just how important John really was to him._

" _Mmm, pub crawl, themed," Sherlock said, a small smile gracing his lips._

" _Yeah, but why-why can't you just do Underground stations?"_

 _Both Kyrie and Sherlock wrinkled their noses in aversion. What a boring and bland idea!_

" _Lacks the personal touch. We're going to go for a drink in every street where we..."_

" _... every street where you found a corpse!" Molly, mumbled, finishing the sentence for him, "Delightful. Where do_ _ **I**_ _come in?" she asked._

 _Kyrie looked up at Sherlock. That was a good question._

" _Don't want to get ill. That would ruin it... spoil the mood."_

 _Ah, Kyrie understood what he was getting at._

" _You're a graduate chemist. Can't you just work it out?" Molly said a bit tersely._

" _I lack the practical experience," he said, smiling boyishly at her._

 _It was true, Kyrie mused. Sherlock wasn't a great drinker. Of course, he wasn't averse to savouring a drink on the quiet evenings, when they were both sitting near the fire place, either talking about recent events or engaging in a discussion about various topics. Sherlock, apparently, considered it a bit of a sport to see if he could get her to change her mind on certain views._

" _Meaning you think I like a drink," Molly said, her voice dropping at least half an octave._

" _Occasionally," Sherlock agreed._

" _That I'm a drunk."_

" _No. No!" Sherlock quickly said, trying to soothe her over._

 _Molly kept glaring at him, until Sherlock looked away from her. He shared a brief look with Kyrie. She just smiled up at him and patted his arm. He then looked back at Molly again._

" _You look... well," he finally said in an attempt to distract her._

 _Molly smiled a bit, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I am."_

" _How's...?" He stopped abruptly and Kyrie bit her lip to keep from laughing. It felt so good, to no longer find herself in that awkward zone were he could not remember her name. Although, she did have a feeling he still sometimes just called her 'wife' so he would not have to go through the effort of recalling her name. She found she didn't mind at all._

" _... Tom?" he finally offered a name. Clearly he wasn't very confident about the correctness of that name._

" _Not a sociopath," she said with a smile._

" _Still? Good." Sherlock tried to be amiable._

 _Molly smiled up at him, after casting a brief glance in Kyrie's direction. "And we're having quite a lot of sex."_

 _Kyrie could feel Sherlock stiffen next to her. His mind briefly seemed to go offline at the mention of 'sex'._

 _Kyrie wasn't sure if it was because of the topic itself or that he really didn't want to imagine Molly and Tom having said sex, because Tom shared... certain... similarities with himself. Kyrie smirked when she saw him swallow away a lump, his eyes briefly flickering between her and basically anywhere else._

" _Okay," he finally said, taking a large folder full of papers from his coat and putting it on the table. It was a clear indication that the previous topic was now over._

" _I want you to calculate John's ideal intake, and mine, to remain in the sweet spot the whole evening."_

 _Kyrie leaned around and grinned when she saw that the folder was full of his and John's medical records and quite a bit of other personal documentation._

" _No Kyrie, you can't have the file," Sherlock said blasé._

 _She arched a brow at him. "Why not? She gets to read the file," she said, nodding her head at Molly._

 _He turned his head to look down at her. "That's different," he said to her, softly._

 _Kyrie grinned. "Aw, do you have some_ _ **embarrassing**_ _statistics in there you don't want me to know about?"_

 _Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "Light-headed, good..." he said, handing Molly a picture of Vitruvian Man with a picture of John's head stuck over the original one._

" _Urinating in wardrobes, bad," Molly said, a bit tight-lipped._

" _Hmm."_

SSS

Sherlock surprised Kyrie by casting an adoring glance her way. "The idea was good, just not... executed to its full potential. In the future, I will leave the planning of 'parties'," he said, sounding a bit horrified at the thought, "... in the capable hands of this woman here. _She_ managed to plan a way better party than I ever could."

Kyrie smiled up at him.

 _By the time Sherlock was taking John out for their stag night, Kyrie had already had the hen party she had organised. She had invited Janine, her sister Kathryn and even Molly, to celebrate with Mary the last few days of freedom._

 _Where Sherlock had picked a themed pub crawl, Kyrie had organised a 'chocolate crawl'. Or, an evening all chocolate-treats tour._

 _They started the tour in Covent Garden in a location where chocolate was made from the cocoa bean on site. It was a gorgeous venue for the introduction. Then the guide took them on a delightful stroll to several lovely boutiques while sharing a bit of local history along the way. They travelled through Soho to Piccadilly and stopped in places like the very cool tea room at Sketch, but also East India Company, Paul A Young, Carpo, Prestat and Charbonnel et Walker_

 _All through the event, they were treated to a wide variety of chocolate products, like truffles, pralines, caramels and fondants. They got to sample the best of chocolate in all its forms... A freshly roasted cocoa bean, decadent chocolate bars, hot chocolate, gelato, brownies and even a specially designed chocolate cocktail in a secluded London bar._

 _It was a lovely evening, even though there were a few awkward moments because Molly felt the need to keep telling how wonderful Tom was and how great the sex was. Mary was a great sport through it all_ _and_ _numerous humoured looks were exchanged between the women._

 _Kyrie and Mary ended the evening together, each curled up in one of the armchairs near the fireplace back at 221B Baker Street. Kyrie liked to think that both Mary and John considered it to be their second home._

 _They were two women in love, completely besotted with their significant others. So, obviously, a lot of stories were shared, odd facts, weird trivia and other embarrassing things that would have completely mortified both Sherlock and John had they listened in on them._

 _Mary looked at Kyrie, slowly sipping her wine. "Molly... she really isn't over Sherlock, is she?"_

" _Nope."_

" _Those stories though..."_

 _Kyrie chuckled. "I know!"_

" _As you live with, you know, 'The One and Only'..."_

 _Kyrie snorted with laughter._

" _...What exactly... is Molly missing out on?" Mary asked her with a mischievous glint in her eyes._

" _A lot," Kyrie said with a cheeky grin._

" _Oh, come one! You_ _ **have**_ _to give me more than that!" Mary complained. "Me and John, we only get to see Sherlock as he presents himself. You... you get to see an entirely different side of him. While John... God, I love him to bits, but he's John. You know John. So, try again."_

 _Kyrie thought for a moment. "_ _I think that Molly has a very romantic idea about Sherlock," she said thoughtfully. "Or actually, about how he'd be if he would just fall in love with her."_

" _She did make a few allusions to that, didn't she?" Mary said with a slight nod of her head._

" _The truth is, he would not make her happy at all and she would drive him up the walls in no time,"_ _Kyrie said. "_ _She would be disappointed because she would still not get the affirmation she craves and Sherlock would run mad with her constant need for affection and confirmation."_

" _How do you do it then? There must be a secret."_

" _Not really," Kyrie said with a small smile. "He's just him. There are still days he hardly talks, days he's too busy with experiments or cases to notice I'm even there... And days he just wants a bit of company, to not be alone, but without any romantic context at all. I don't think Molly could handle any of that."_

" _And you can?"_

 _Kyrie shrugged her shoulders. "I'm used to it. I've lived with both Sherlock and John before we were 'together', remember? I've known him for a long time. I know his mood swings and what he can be like."_

" _John did say you always were very 'in tune' with him. He must have a different side to him though. One only you get to see. Otherwise, you wouldn't be in a relationship with him. You would have just lived with him as you've done when John was there too."_

 _Kyrie smiled as she thought of him._

" _Aw, there it is..." Mary suddenly said with a smile. "That look in your eyes that tells me you're thinking of him. Violet shooting stars."_

 _Kyrie grinned at her friend. "You know me all too well! Yes, of course there is a different side to him. And yes... in those moments he is everything that Molly dreams him to be... and more! But, it's a side of him he's just learning to accept as being part of him. He still detests it, sees it as a weakness. He still struggles with it, fights it even."_

" _Can't be easy though," Mary told her, a serious look on her face. "Seems like you have to fight for every moment of affection between you two."_

" _Sometimes it feels that way, yes," Kyrie agreed. "You know, one of my favourite love stories is that of Catherine and Heathcliff. Wuthering Heights? In it, Cathy tells someone about the nature of her love. Her love for another man was like the foliage in the woods; it would change with time as winter changes the trees. Her love for Heathcliff wasn't beautiful or pretty; she compared it to the eternal rocks beneath... A source of little visible delight, but necessary."_

" _Wow," Mary said simply. "Thats... that's how you feel about him?"_

" _Yes," Kyrie said softly. "Our relationship might seem strange to some, loveless even. But it's not. It's ours, it's us, it's the way we are. My love for him... it just is. It's there. Not to be changed by time or any other earthly influence. I think... I think deep down he knows that and he doesn't always know how to deal with that. But, he also knows he has the time to figure things out on his own. I'm not going anywhere."_

" _Poor Molly," Mary said. "She never did have a chance with him."_

" _None whatsoever. I hope... I hope she'll learn to value Tom. He is a good guy. He's no Sherlock but, he can actually give her what she wants."_

" _Here's to Tom and Molly then," Mary said and she raised her glass in a toast._

" _And John and Mary," Kyrie said, raising her own glass._

" _And Sherlock and Kyrie."_

 _They gently clinked the glasses together and smiled._


	53. Stag Night

**A/N And here is one of my absolute favourite chapters. It was an absolute blast to write! Really had a lot of fun with this. I hope you have as much fun reading this chapter!**

 **DreamonAlina I was a bit afraid that the conversation between Mary and Kyrie was a bit 'heavy' so I'm really glad to know you liked it and that it was good I kept it in. He won't say it often, but yes, Sherlock has decided that if his had to use a term of endearment, then 'my dear' is acceptable. Though, I kind of expect him to also start calling her 'Wife' after 'The Abominable Bride' episode!**

 **Katt96 Sure, you can steal a hug. Don't let Kyrie notice though. She's quite protective and jealous :-)**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Haha, that's easy! I try to stay ahead of you guys! And merely copy and paste a new chapter each day (while also trying to make sure I add a couple of pages of new story). Which is kind of hard lately because I'm kind of stuck on a really hard part to write! I'm glad you enjoy the wedding section so fare :-)**

 **Guest Thank you so much for your compliment and review. Hope to see you here more often! I'm really happy that you like what I've done with the story and that you think Kyrie fits well into it. It makes me all fuzzy and warm inside!**

 **Thewickedprincess Awesome that you like my 'Hen night'! Thank you! I also really liked how Sherlock called her 'my dear'. New moment of growth for him! Also glad that you agree with my view how Molly would see/want a relationship with Sherlock and how it would turn out.**

 **Okay, enjoy this new chapter. And please leave a review! I really want to know what you thought of this one!**

 **SSS**

Sherlock looked at the guests. "Now, you probably wonder where the embarrassment is I mentioned earlier. Short answer... right here," he said dryly. Kyrie grinned and thought back to that memorable part of the evening.

 _When the boys returned – not even two hours later_ _after they left to have their 'Stag Night' –_ _they were completely trousered and apparently under the impression that 221B Baker Street was the perfect venue to continue the part_ _ay._

 _Sherlock poured him_ _self_ _and John a stiff drink – as if they hadn't had enough already – and somehow they managed to rope_ _Kyrie_ _into playing Forehead Detective with them. John was grinning like an idiot when he wrote names on two rizla rolling papers and stuck one to her head and one to Sherlock's._

 _Sherlock had some trouble writing a name on a Rizla, but in the end he managed and he stuck it_ _to_ _John's head. He then wobbled over to her and grabbed her by her arms. "Who are you again?" he asked and peered at her Rizla. "Oh yes, you are," he said with a smirk. Kyrie rolled her eyes at him._

 _The boys stumbled over towards their armchairs on unsteady feet and flopped down. Kyrie sat down on the floor. Knowing exactly how bony his scrawny legs could feel, Kyrie pushed Sherlock's right leg to the side and went to sit between his legs, leaning against the soft cushion of the chair._

 _At first the boys just sat in their chairs, both slumped back, looking at each other with bleary eyes. John took the first turn. He peered at Sherlock's Rizla, struggling to keep his eyes open._

" _Am I a vegetable?" John asked._

 _Sherlock, cradling his glass of whiskey in one hand, pointed at him._

" _You or the thing?"_

 _They both started to snigger and Kyrie chuckled at their behaviour._

" _Funny!" John said chuckling._

 _Sherlock lowered his head. "Thank you," he said a bit bashfully._

" _Come on," John said, prodding him._

 _Sherlock raised his head again. "No, you're not a vegetable," he said, slurring the words._

" _Your turn." John picked up his glass to take a swig._

" _Errr... am I human?" Sherlock asked._

" _Sometimes," John said._

" _Can't have 'sometimes.' Has to be, um..." Sherlock had trouble finding the words and struggled to pull himself up in his chair, his feet kicking out as he did so._

" _Only 'yes' or 'no' questions, John," Kyrie admonished him lightly._

" _Yes, you're human." John put his glass back down and slumped back in his chair._

 _Sherlock leaned his arms on his legs, allowing his free hand to tangle in Kyrie's hair. She hummed in content. Drunk Sherlock was definitely less uptight than a sober Sherlock._

" _Okay. And am I a man?" he asked for his next question._

" _Yep," John said while Kyrie said, "Definitely!"_

" _Tall?"_

" _Hm-mm," Kyrie mumbled appreciatively._

 _John spread his hands wide in a sweeping 'I don't know' gesture. "Not as tall as people think."_

" _Hmm. Nice?"_

" _You can be if you want to be," Kyrie said sweetly and she turned her head to look at him. She giggled seeing the bleary look in his eyes._

" _Ish," John said._

" _Clever?"_

" _Very!" Kyrie said immediately._

" _I'd say so," John told him._

" _Yeah, you would," Sherlock mumbled, causing John to snort in humour. "Mm, am I important?" he then asked._

 _Kyrie looked up at him. "You are to me," she said softly. Sherlock smiled and lightly bumped his forehead against hers. His eyes were drooping a bit._

" _To s-some people," John said, slurring the words._

 _Sherlock struggled himself up again. "Do 'people'..." he said, making air-quotes around the word in a less than complimentary tone. "... like me?"_

 _John looked thoughtfully while reaching for his glass, without actually picking it up._

" _I like you," Kyrie told him with a grin. "... a lot!"_

" _Of course_ _ **you'd**_ _say that," John said, sounding slightly accusatory. "And no, they don't. You tend to rub 'em up the wrong way."_

" _Okay," Sherlock said as he slumped back in his chair. John was sniggering again. Sherlock leaned forward again when he had a sudden thought. "Am I the current King of England?" he asked._

" _Are you...?" John dissolved in a fit of helpless laughter. "You know we don't have a king?"_

" _Don't we?" Sherlock asked puzzled._

" _He's confused with Mycroft," Kyrie said with a fond smile. "Sweetie, Mycroft is not the king... Now, the queen? Maybe..."_

 _Both boys started to giggle at the remark. Finally Sherlock leaned back again. "Your turn."_

 _Kyrie thought for a moment. "Am I human?_

" _Yes," both of the boys said in unison._

" _Woman?"_

" _Absolutely," John said. "Most definitely," Sherlock remarked dryly._

" _Attractive?"_

" _Err... Um, beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models," Sherlock said, shifting a bit in his seat._

" _Yeah, but am I a beautiful woman?"_

" _I think Mary will allow me, this once, to say... yes, you are."_

" _You think?" Sherlock asked._

" _'Course she bloody is," John said. "Idiot!"_

 _Kyrie looked up at Sherlock and he blinked at her a couple of times. For a brief moment, he seemed to regain his focus on her. "You are..." he started, then paused to contemplate his next words. "... so beautiful, it's unbearable," he said softly._

 _John made a few approving noises behind her. Kyrie couldn't resist and briefly stole a sweet kiss from his lips. She could taste the beer and whiskey and especially the whiskey left a tingling sensation in her mouth._

 _Kyrie quickly pulled back before Sherlock could deepen the kiss. He was too trousered to even care about John's presence at the moment and she knew he would regret that in the morning._

 _Hmm, now what woman could Sherlock think of as being unbearably beautiful? He usually didn't think in terms like that. Maybe it was a generally accepted view? Perhaps a woman men might wage war over? Someone like Helen of Troy?_

" _Am I alive?"_

" _Yes," John said._

" _And I'm very glad of it," Sherlock said heartfelt._

 _Hmm, no Helen of Troy then._

" _Am I famous?"_

" _No," John immediately said. Sherlock didn't seem to agree entirely. "Famous by association?" he tried. But John shook his head. "No, doesn't count."_

" _Your turn, John," Kyrie said, pointing at him._

" _Am_ _**I**_ _a woman?"_

 _Sherlock instantly started chuckling again, his shoulders shaking with mirth and Kyrie smirked._

" _What?" John asked._

" _Yes," Kyrie and Sherlock said both once Sherlock had stopped giggling. He tried to hoist himself up again._

" _Am I a pretty lady?" John asked, pointing up at his Rizla._

" _I'd say...You used to be," Kyrie answered._

 _Sherlock leaned over to peer at the name. "I don't know who you are. I don't know who you're supposed to be," he admitted, causing Kyrie to erupt with a peal of laughter._

" _You picked the name!" John said exasperated._

 _Sherlock flailed his free hand a bit. "Ah, but I picked it at random from the papers."_

 _John slumped back in his seat. "You're not really getting the hang of this game, are you, Sherlock?"_

 _Sherlock didn't respond to that comment. "So, I am human, I'm not as tall as people think I am..."_

 _He leaned back in the chair again. "I'm-I'm nice-ish, clever, important to some people, Kyrie likes me but otherwise I tend to rub people up the wrong way." He looked at Kyrie. "Are you sure I'm not the king of England. Or the queen... You know... Mycroft?"_

" _Your not Mycroft, sweetie. Let it go," Kyrie said, patting him on his leg._

 _Suddenly he laughed in delight. "Got it."_

" _Go on, then." John challenged him._

" _I'm you, aren't I?"_

 _Suddenly Mrs Hudson knocked on the open door and made herself known with her customary 'yoo-hoo'. When they looked up, they found her standing in the doorway, together with a young woman dressed in a nurse's outfit, wearing a rather plain cardigan over it._

" _Client!" Mrs Hudson told them._

 _John managed to greet the woman with a decent, "Hello." Sherlock however, waved at her and the way he said 'Hello'... Kyrie rolled her eyes._

 _John invited the woman in with a gesture of his hands. "Come on," he said._

" _Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?" she asked._

 _John smiled broadly at her. He raised his hand and started whistling a rising note through his teeth as he slowly pointed up to Sherlock's Rizla. Sherlock flashed her a demented looking grin._

 _To be honest, if that would have been Kyrie's first impression of him as his client, she would have run like hell!_

 _The boys however, rose to their feet and wobbled their way over towards the sofa. Kyrie sighed, walked over to them and quickly removed the rolling papers from their heads, including her own._

 _When she walked back into the kitchen, she checked the name on her own Rizla. Her lips parted with a soft gasp and her eyes widened. The small paper read 'Sherlock's wife'. She blinked a couple of times, remembering his words..._ _ **You are so beautiful, it's unbearable**_ _. She smiled and gazed at the paper a few lingering moments before she crumpled the rolling papers and tossed them in the bin._

 _She walked back into the living room and caught a part of their client's story._

" _Maybe he wasn't quite as keen as I was..." she said, sounding a bit sad. "... but I – I just thought... at least he'd call to say that we were finished." Her voice broke and tears filled her eyes. She daintily lifted a hand to wipe them away._

 _Kyrie's mouth dropped open when she saw how Sherlock regarded her with a look of open sympathy and sadness on his face. Suddenly he frowned as if his face had done something bad by showing actual empathy and emotion. Kyrie grinned and quietly approached them._

 _She thought it would be better if the young woman would come around the next day because obviously... the boys were not at their best game at the moment. But, she didn't want to rob their client of at least the opportunity to... vent._

 _The young woman recomposed herself again. "I went round there, to his flat."_

 _Sherlock clasped his hands together and slowly lowered his head to rest his chin on his hands._

" _No trace of him." The young woman swallowed away a lump._

" _Mr Holmes," she said, causing Sherlock to smile a bit sheepishly while he struggled to keep his eyes open. He was losing that battle... quickly._

" _I honestly think I had dinner," the young woman continued and then lowered her voice. "... with a ghost."_

 _The young women raised her head to look at Sherlock, but he did not respond to her revelation. How could he? The drunk buffoon was dozing off! And so was John! Sherlock grunted a bit and his breathing evened out in the way it did when he was falling asleep._

" _Mr Holmes?" the young woman tried, but her only answer was a gentle snore. "With a ghost, Mr Holmes!" she suddenly said loudly._

" _Actually um..." Kyrie walked round to face her and gestured at her,_ _giving_ _her a questioning_ _look_ _._

" _Tessa," the young woman said with a sniff._

" _Tessa," Kyrie repeated. "My husband and his associate had quite a... strenuous evening, I think it would best if you were to return..."_

 _Tessa looked up at her with a crestfallen look on her face. Suddenly Sherlock's hands slipped from beneath his chin, his head drooped down and he nearly tumbled off the sofa. He instantly forced himself back upright. "Boring, boring, boring – no!"_

 _John drew in a noisy breath and his head rolled a bit sideways. He was still fast asleep._

" _Fff-fascinating! Kyrie, how dare you tell our client to come back later! She's in distress, we need to take this case. Now!"_

 _Kyrie rolled her eyes but she knew there was no stopping him. Well, so far for a quiet evening, she thought. She could not, in clear conscience, let the boys leave and let them traipse about trying to solve a case while they were pissed as a newt._

" _John –John! Wake up!" Sherlock tried to wake John by shaking his leg. John opened his eyes looking quite annoyed about it, slapping Sherlock's hand away._

 _Sherlock tried to look_ _like a_ _smooth_ _gentleman. "Apologies about my..." He paused and flailed a hand at John... "... you know... thing," he said, slurring the words and looking anything but_ _smooth_ _. He turned his head to send John a stern look. "Rude, rude!" he chastised him._

" _Ugh, fine!" Kyrie gave in and walked across the living room to fetch their coats. When she returned, John had fallen asleep again but Sherlock rose himself to his unsteady feet, swaying a bit._

" _Don't worry. I'll find him in ten minutes," Sherlock assured her in his cocksure way. Kyrie glared at him and shoved his coat against his chest while Tessa looked absolutely delighted._

" _What's your dog's name?" Sherlock asked her while grabbing at his coat._

" _Yeah, I'm there if you want it," John mumbled in his sleep. Sherlock reached down and shoved his shoulder. John nearly toppled over sideways, but he instantly veered back, his eyes open and his lips pursed in a slightly puzzled look._

" _We're meant to... Yeah, the game's...," Sherlock waved his hand in a vague gesture as he couldn't find the right words. "... something." He then stumbled away to struggle his arms into the sleeves of his coat._

" _...on?" Kyrie supplied in a dry tone making Tessa gasp in excitement._

 _Sherlock staggered back, fumbling with his scarf. "Yeah, that, that!" he said. Kyrie snorted at him and swatted away his hand to properly loop his scarf around his neck._

" _John!" Sherlock bellowed. Tessa stood up with a smile. "Okay!" she exclaimed while poor John struggled himself to his feet._

Sherlock looked down at his wife and found her looking up at him with a dreamy look in her eyes. He smiled a bit. No doubt she was thinking back to that evening as well, and, judging the look on his face, so was John.

Though, admittedly, he had indeed been 'pissed as a newt' that night... Kyrie's wording... He still remembered everything that had transpired. Every embarrassing detail, he thought in disgust.

"This next part goes to show that, working a case and making deductions while... slightly inebriated... is not a good idea," he told the guests. He looked down at Kyrie. "I better not find any...pictures... in your scrapbook," he said softly. Kyrie merely flashed him a sweet smile. Had he really ever thought of her as being 'forgettable'? She was anything but! He shook his head and grimaced a bit, remembering the rest of the stag night...

 _They were... somewhere... in... um... a living room. Sherlock wobbled a bit unsteadily in front of a large clear glass plate on a stand, trying to figure out what the hell he was looking at. He straightened up a bit and looked at his surroundings. The apartment was... big... roomy_ _._ _.. Brick walls. High ceiling._

 _He was making all these brilliant deductions from the safety of a sit thing. Couch? Sofa? He was kneeling on it, his arms braced on its back. Oh right, he was looking at that glass plate. Boring. Moving on._

 _Thingie... where was he? Oh, leaning against... Why was there a pillar in the middle of the room?_

 _Sherlock struggled to his feet, standing up from the sit thing and turned around. Oh, he was already sitting again. Wasn't he standing just now?_

" _Oh, it's nice!" Thingie... Wait... No, John, muttered, looking around while bracing his hand against the pillar._

 _What were they doing here again? Sherlock spread his arms over the back of the sit thing he was sitting on. His eyes fell on the nurse woman and scowl-y looking man. Land... lord?_

" _Nice place," John mumbled._

 _The landlord crossed his arms. He wasn't looking very friendly. Didn't he know he was Sherlock Holmes? He was a hero. Well, according to John at least and... um... that nice woman who always made him tea and baked him cookies and tasted like sweet fruit when he kissed her. He liked kissing her. Ah, wife!_

 _He got up and tottered around the living room. Now... where was he again?_

" _See anything?"_

 _Sherlock turned around in the direction of the voice. "Hmm?"_

" _Any clues, Mr Holmes?" Nurse woman asked him._

 _Clues? Was he supposed to look for clues? Better get on with that then._

" _Oh, errrrrr..."_

 _He looked around to find something he could deduce. Ah, there... it was something. Designer. Table. And it looked... weird... art?_

 _And near it was another thing. Another sit thing. A shorter sit thing. Wait... yes... Chair! Seat. Leather. He blinked his eyes... sleeeeeep._

 _Moving on... Oh, look... Another thing... speaker. Looked like a hi-tech... thing. And next to that thing was Billy. What was Billy doing here? Oh, wait... not Billy. Billy was not a goat._

 _He deduced that this was a … death? Skull... deaded... animal skull... head. With paint on. Lots and lots of paint on._

 _And on the window sill was... something... What was he looking at? Pipe? Tube? Wotsit? Thingamebob?_

 _He shook his head and continued to take in everything that was in the room, he would have the answer in just a few moments. Wait, what was the question again? He blinked at a... Hmm... an egg. Chair? Sitty thing? It was green, that was for sure._

 _He was still humming vaguely before he suavely turned around and deduced the nurse woman... Client? Victim? Cardigan! Yes, progress!_

 _Oh look, next to nurse woman was his wife! Aw, she was here too! He deduced her as well. Married... obviously... Coat... Gift... Violet! He stumbled towards her. Something had to be violet. That was very important. More important than anything..._

 _He blinked at her and saw how she arched a delicate brow at him. He blinked a few more times and tried to focus on her eyes. He smiled at her. All was good. He saw violet. Why was that good again? Who was she?_

" _Hi," he said, flashing her a charming grin... or so he hoped... "I'm Sherlock."_

 _She smiled up at him. "I know," she said in a soft voice. She had a beautiful voice._

 _He furrowed his brows. This was... odd... "Haven't we done this before?" he asked._

 _She smiled again, "Yes, we have." Suddenly he felt her soft lips against his. He wasn't entirely sure if he was kissing her or if she was kissing him. It felt nice though._

" _Mr Holmes?"_

 _Right, the nurse woman wanted him to clue. He pulled back from... Oh, she was his wife! His wife... His!_

 _He scratched his head. There was something he was supposed to do. Oh... he hadn't done the thing yet! The thing... the looking thing! He grinned at the nurse woman. "I'm just gonna whip this out."_

 _He put his hand into his coat pocket but the looking thing wouldn't come out. He stumbled backwards, twirled around and finally decided to just shrug off the damn coat so he could get the pouch with the looking thing._

 _See, there it was! He blinked at the pouch, unrolled it and took out his... looking thing... He was pretty sure it had a different name... Magnifier. Yes. He tossed the pouch over his shoulder and held up his magnifier in triumph._

" _Mm-hmm?"_

 _He clicked open the magnifier and dropped to his knees on a white rug in a way that had to be pretty suave because he was Sherlock and he was very refined. He braced himself with his left hand and slowly leaned... wobbled... forward onto his right elbow._

" _You all right?" he heard the nurse woman say behind him._

" _Hmm? Yeah," John replied. "He's clueing."_

 _Sherlock nodded in agreement. Yes. He was._

" _What?" the nurse woman asked._

" _He's... hmm? He's clueing for looks."_

 _See? John understood! He was a good... hmm... yeah he was good._

" _No comment," his wife said, "I said to wait till tomorrow."_

 _Sherlock huffed. Now... to clue for looks. To clue... for... looks... He peered through his magnifier and saw lots of white stuff. It was hard to keep his eyes open. Maybe he needed to have a closer look. He slowly toppled over and... oh soft!_

 _He was drifting. It was nice. So tranquil._

 _Suddenly he got pulled up roughly by his arm. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" he cried out. The landlord released his grip on him and he flailed his arms about to retain his balance._

" _This is a famous detective," the nurse woman told the landlord. "It's Sherlock Holmes and his partner, John Hamish Watson. And that is Sherlock's wife, Kyrie Holmes."_

" _Hi," his wife said, waving at the man, flashing him a radiant smile._ _Wait, why was she smiling at the_ _ **landlord**_ _that way? He was pretty sure she was not supposed to do that!_

" _You, stop smiling_ _at him like that_ _!" he ordered... he was pretty sure she was his wife, but he kept his eyes on the landlord. He didn't like this landlord! "_ _What d'you think you're doing?" Sherlock whispered indignantly. "Don't … Compromise... The integrity of the..." He paused and raised his hand in a silent request for a moment. He then turned around and regurgitated the copious amounts of beer and whiskey he had consumed throughout the evening._

" _... Crime scene!" John cried out, sounding quite proud of himself to come up with the right words. Well, of course this was a crime scene!_

 _Sherlock coughed to clear his throat and straightened up onto his knees again. Ah, much better! He gestured towards John with his looking thing. "Yeah, that," he agreed._

 _Hmm... he just vomited all over the carpet. Not very suave. Better act casual. He blinked up at the others and raised his looking thing and clicked it closed with a flourish. He then inconspicuously looked away to delicately wipe some... residue... from the corner of his mouth..._


	54. The Council Chamber

**A/N Not sure if anyone noticed, but I didn't see it mentioned in the reviews so I just want to point it out. When Sherlock said, "Hi, I'm Sherlock," at Kyrie when he was druk during Stag Night, it was a slight throw back to how they first met in church, right before they got married. His first words ever spoken to her were, 'Hi, I'm Sherlock.' She replied with "Yes, I know." Kind of sad no one seemed to notice, or maybe just one :-(**

 **Artemis7448 Well, I hope it was embarrassing in a good way. I absolutely had a blast writing that chapter!**

 **DreamonAlina It's just too bad it was a bit obvious, but I just had to get it in there. I'm glad you liked that scene and how John wrote, 'Sherlock's wife' instead of her name. Maybe he'd forgotten her name as well, as Sherlock tends to do :-) And drunk Sherlock is definitely less uptight so all of those feelings for her (like jealousy when she smiles at another man) suddenly have a chance to surface. Thank you for your kind words! They make me blush!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 I hope you recognised the 'Hi, I'm Sherlock.' It would make you the only one! I think that is my absolute favourite moment of the chapter. Also... Surprise! Early update! It's my day off! -grins- I'm really glad you bother to review after each chapter. Always gives me something to look forward to and... of course... reviews are my fuel and boost to keep writing! Your review made me laugh!**

 **Katt96 She'd be fine with a hug as long as you don't give her the impression you'd want to run away with him. Like Sherlock said, don't let her sweet looks fool you. She can turn absolutely nasty! And thank you! -hug- You always give lovely reviews!**

 **Guest I think you accidentally left me the same review twice :-)**

 **Anyway, have fun with this new chapter! Also, I hope you guys are into the switch to Sherlock's POV because that will be the POV for the rest of the episode.**

SSS

 _The rest of the night was... a blur. No, not even a blur. There was a big humongous gap between that_ _awkward_ _moment and... waking up in a cell, arms flailing about, to the sound of Graham Lestrade bellowing, "NOT REALLY!"_

 _He looked around the cell in bewilderment. What the hell was going on?_

 _Graham beckoned him to come. "Come on," he told him and then he disappeared from the cell, going after John. Sherlock sat up on the bench. He tried to stand but instantly fell back onto the bench. Okay, clearly he had to go about things with a bit more prudence._

 _He tried again, placed his fingers against his temples and forced his mind to regain full control over his body._ _It w_ _asn't fully cooper_ _atin_ _g yet... he wobbled on one foot, at least it was a start. After a brief moment, feeling more confidant in his ability to leave the cell without toppling over, he lowered his hands and carefully waddled out of the cell._

 _At the police station front desk, Sherlock grunted a bit with the effort to put on his coat. John had just accepted his personal belongings and tucked his wallet into his back pocket. Sherlock didn't want to look at the person standing behind him. Unfortunately, the person behind him refused to be ignored._

" _What, not even a 'Thank you for bailing us out?'," Kyrie asked them in a mocking voice._

" _Thank you, Kyrie. For bailing us out," John said meekly._

" _Same," Sherlock muttered._

" _And you... Well, thanks for a... you know..." John told Sherlock as the three of them walked away. "... an evening," John finally managed to say._

 _Kyrie snorted at his careful wording._

" _It was awful," Sherlock said in dismay. He_ _was_ _appalled and disappointed with himself._

" _Yeah," John agreed._

 _Sherlock groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose._

" _I was gonna pretend, but it was, truly."_

" _Oh, I don't know," Kyrie said with a smile, hugging his arm. "I had fun last night."_

 _Sherlock could only groan. He had a feeling that a lot of stuff that happened the night before, would come back to haunt him._

" _Yeah,_ _ **you**_ _would have," he muttered darkly. He suddenly lowered his hand. "That woman, Tessa," he said._

" _What?" John sent him a puzzled look._

" _Dated a ghost. The most interesting case for months. What a_ _ **wasted**_ _opportunity," he said, severely bummed that he had missed out on a good case._

" _... Okay," John replied, sounding as if he wasn't completely convinced._

 _Back at home Mrs Hudson insisted to make John his favourite breakfast one last time. Sherlock caught Kyrie grinning seeing the pained look on John's face. He smirked slightly as he climbed up the stairs to their flat._

 _Kyrie followed right behind him when he entered through the living room door. She closed the door behind them._

 _He quietly handed her his coat when she held out her hand and he watched her as she walked across the living room to hang up their coats. He stood there, feeling lost for a moment, before he went to the dinner table and sat himself down behind his laptop._

 _He realised that last night, Kyrie had seen a... vulnerable side of him. The side that always seemed to want to make itself known when it wasn't governed by the iron hold of his will and discipline._

 _With John, it was easy to just brush things off. But she wasn't John. She was, for better or worse, his wife. And he didn't quite know how to carry himself right now. In the end, he decided to pull up an article about Major Sholto. It was an article that showed a picture of him_ _before he was injured. The strapline beside the photo read, 'He destroyed us all. And he gets a medal for it.'_

 _He didn't look up when he heard Kyrie walking up to him. She leaned over his shoulder to have a look, but didn't comment._

" _Tea?" she asked him, her voice soft._

 _He blinked at his screen a couple of times. She was letting it go, he realised. Did she know how he felt? He wouldn't be surprised if she did. She'd... he swallowed... She'd always been very attuned to his moods, his whims and flights of fancy._

" _Sherlock?" she asked and he realised he hadn't given an answer. He turned in his seat to look at her. There was nothing in her face that suggested mockery or ridicule and her eyes... her eyes were lovely._

 _He reached out and pulled her face closer to his so he could kiss her, warmly, softly. He paid attention to his body's response... breathing picked up, check... increase of heart rate, check... blood flooding the pelvic area, check._

 _He pulled back and licked his lips; he could still taste her. "Tea would be nice," he then said and kissed her briefly before he turned around to continue reading the article. Well, not reading, he was paying attention to his body again._

 _There seemed to be a correlation between the intensity of their kisses and the time it took for his body to return to its normal state. Not that the information was of particular use to him, but he still filed it away. Until the necessity arose to delete that bit of knowledge, he planned to savour it._

 _Sherlock glanced towards the living room door when he heard John's footsteps climbing up the stairs. He quickly switched to a different tab on his laptop, the website for I DATED A GHOST . COM._

" _Hey John," Kyrie greeted him, "I was just making some tea. Want some?"_

" _Yeah, sure," John said with a sigh. "Thanks."_

" _There are going to be others," Sherlock told him when John approached the dinner table._

" _Others?" John asked, standing next to him._

" _Victims, women. Most ghosts tend to haunt a single house – this ghost, however, is willing to commute, look," he said and he stood up from his chair. He gestured at the map of London he had spread out on the table. Seven pins were stuck in various places where –_ _he presumed_ _– a 'ghost date' had_ _possibly_ _appeared. The pins formed a rough circle spanning several miles around the Thames._

 _He placed his fingers together in front of his face. He needed to narrow things down. He closed his eyes._

 _When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in a large Council Chamber. The walls of the room were lined with wood panelling. A big blue carpet covered the floor. Several rows of benches, with red leather-covered seats, formed a semi-circle._

 _Sherlock slowly walked down the blue carpeted steps towards the floor, looking around him as he went, his hands clasped behind his back. In front of him was the Chairman's bench and Sherlock walked towards it. Once there, he turned around, facing at least forty-eight women standing around the room._

 _He slowly scanned each and every one of them. He thoughtfully looked at on_ _e_ _of the women and pointed towards her._

" _Mmm, not you."_

 _The woman sat down._

 _He pointed to another woman. "Not you." She too sat down._

 _He looked around him and started pointing at different women left and right in a quick fire way. "Not you, not you. Not you either, or you, or you, you, you, you, or not you."_

 _Each time he pointed at someone, the woman sat down. Until only four women remained standing. He walked over to the woman who stood nearest and went to stand in front of her. "Hi," he said. The woman, dressed in a black dress, smiled pleasantly at him. She was one of those women men would consider to be of the attractive kind. Delicate eyebrows, tinted skin and a sultry look in her eyes._

" _Gail," she said, with pearly white teeth._

 _He turned from her and walked over to the next woman. She was a bit more plain looking. Not unattractive but not very attractive either. She had ginger hair and was clad in denim; denim jacket of a plain grey shirt and denim jeans._

" _Charlotte," she said to introduce herself._

 _He turned towards the third woman. Shoulder length chestnut hair, high cheekbones set in a round face... She wore a soft pink jacket and seemed a bit older._

" _Robyn," she said._

 _He turned towards the fourth one and raised a brow at her. Blonde, short haircut, completely dressed in red; red dress and a red leather jacket. Her smile was a quite provocative. He stared at her impassively._

" _Vicky," she said._

 _He turned around, took a breath and when he turned around again, only he and the four women were left with them standing in a semi-circle in front of him._

 _Sherlock proceeded to spend the better half of the morning, conversing with the four women, trying to determine if they had something in common and if so... what?_

 _They all met the 'ghost' at a different location; pub, frequenting the same gym, chatting on the bus and online. He had introduced himself with different names; Oscar, Mike, Terry and 'love_monkey'. When Vicky said the name, she had a naughty glint in her eyes. He gave her a stern look, a little warning to not get too flirtatious with him._

 _For a moment he thought he was getting somewhere when they all told him they had met up with him at his place. The moment he asked for the address however, they all spoke simultaneously and mentioned a different address._

 _When he asked what had attracted them to him, they all had different answers as well; very romantic, very charming, he listened, he was sweet, and he had a lovely..._

" _You okay?"_

 _Sherlock looked to his side and saw John standing next to him. He raised his hand towards Vicky and she immediately froze and fell silent. He turned towards John and he blinked his eyes to withdraw himself from his 'Mind Palace'._

" _He's okay, John. Just busy," Kyrie told him with a smile. Sherlock briefly looked up and found her seated on the sofa, folding laundry._

 _He frowned at her for a moment. Four women just told him what had attracted them to the 'ghost'. Their answers ranging from very romantic, to very charming, a good listener and someone with a lovely... whatever it was that Vicky found... lovely... He gulped at the thought._

 _Point was, he was none of those things! He was not romantic, he was pretty much an obnoxious arsehole... the only time he was charming was when he needed something from someone... He definitely was not a good listener and he was pretty sure he also didn't fall into the category of someone with a lovely... something._

 _If those were qualities_ _ **women**_ _looked for in a potential partner... why the hell did Kyrie agree to..._ _ **be**_ _... with him? What attracted her to him?_

 _He shook his head and saw how John stared at the six open laptops on the coffee table with a puzzled look on his face. The front left one showed a typed message: "VICKY: He had a lovely..."_

 _John then swept his gaze of his plate of untouched food. Sherlock glanced briefly at it. Gammon steak, pineapple slice on top, fried egg and some chips. He wasn't hungry anyway, not now._

" _Let your food go cold. Mrs Hudson'll play hell."_

" _I warned her not to bother," Kyrie said while folding a towel. "He's not gonna eat, not now anyway."_

 _Sherlock smirked. It was funny how well she knew him and how John could immediately see it was a dish cooked by Mrs Hudson. They really had different cooking styles._

" _Not now, John," Sherlock told him. He unbuttoned his jacket and squatted down in front of the coffee table and started typing a reply to Vicky. When he hit enter, his message came up reading, 'SHERLOCK: Sorry about that.' He closed his eyes and lowered the hand he had raised to pause her._

" _He had a lovely manner," she said, finishing her sentence._

 _Sherlock looked away, deep in thought. "Different names, different addresses. He turned his head towards Gail._

" _Describe him," he ordered._

" _Short blonde hair," she replied. The others, again, provided different answers. Dark hair, long... Ginger... Vicky couldn't tell, because of course her stud had been wearing a mask._

 _Sherlock raised his hands and was holding a newspaper. He quickly turned the pages until he reached the Obituaries section._

" _He's stealing the identity of corpses..." he said thoughtfully._

 _He paid particular attention to the obituary of Michael James Heaney. "... getting the names from the Obituary columns."_

 _Sherlock was now looking through a different newspaper. "All single men. He's using the dead man's flat under the assumption it'll be empty for a while."_

 _He raised his head when he suddenly realised what the 'ghost' was doing. "Free love nest!" he exclaimed._

 _The women all had different things to say... "I feel sick." "It's gruesome." "That's awful." Of course, Vicky, the sly vixen, was impressed. "Clever!" she said._

" _Bastard!"_

 _Sherlock looked up, hearing the familiar voice. The incoming alert of her text message briefly pulled him from his 'Mind Palace'. Sherlock fluidly moved over to a laptop on one of the dinner chairs and typed a message. "Hello Tessa."_

 _He closed his eyes momentarily and when he opened them again, he saw Tessa standing among the other four women. She was wearing her long cardigan over casual clothes this time._

" _Hello Tessa," he said, greeting her. She just glared at him._

" _Meanwhile, back to business. No-one wants to use a dead man's home..."_

 _When Vicky shrugged her shoulders as if she wasn't bother by it, Sherlock cast her a brief reproving look.  
"... Least not until it's been cleared. So, he disguises himself, steals the man's home, steals his identity."_

 _Suddenly John was standing beside him. "But only for one night..." he said._

 _Sherlock turned to look at him._

" _... then he's gone."_

" _He's not a ghost, John. He's a_ _ **mayfly**_ _. He lives for a day."_

 _He turned his head to face the five women again._

" _So – what was it he was looking for?"_

 _He looked at Gail._

" _Job."_

 _Gail turned out to be a gardener, suddenly wearing a pale jumper and overalls. Charlotte, wearing a cook's jacket and hat, turned out to be a cook. Tessa was a nurse, he already knew that, but... she turned out to be a private nurse. Robyn was working in security and thus was wearing a security officer's uniform. Vicky was a maid and wore the appropriate attire, not the naughty kind._

 _Sherlock looked down for a brief moment and scrunched up his nose in concentration. He looked up when an idea struck. "Obvious. You all work for the same person!"_

 _He opened his eyes to retreat from his 'Mind Palace' and quickly moved from laptop to laptop, tying on each one. Back in his 'Mind Palace' he carefully read all the information he had just pulled up from the internet. He sighed._

" _No, not the same employer. Damn!" he uttered annoyed. He screwed his eyes closed. "Come on. We can do this."_

 _He opened his eyes again and looked at Gail._

" _Ideal night out."_

 _The answers were: clay pigeon shooting... boring, line dancing... terrifying, pictures... uninspired, wine in front of they telly... ugh... Dungeon... He shook his head in dismay at Vicky's answer. Yes, of course she would say something like that. What would Kyrie say though? Any of these answers? He briefly closed his eyes again._

" _Make up."_

 _Clarins, No.7, Maybelline, nothing special, whatever's cheap. Damn._

" _Perfume."_

 _Chanel, Chanel, Chanel... Oh, this looked to be promising! Chanel! Estée Lauder... Ugh..._

" _Ideal man?"_

 _George Clooney... he rolled his eyes at the answer... Home-loving... okay that was him, to a point. Fond of cuddling... only in his sleep... Caring... Kind-ish? Ten things... He blinked his eyes when Vicky held up her thumb to start working off her list. Nope, he did not have the patience for that._

 _He quickly raised his hand towards her and 'zipped' her with a gesture of his fingers and thumb._

" _There's a unifying factor. There has to be." He frowned. "None of you reported anything stolen."_

 _He looked at the women in front of him and pointed at them as he worked off a list of his own._

" _Security guard, gardener, cook, maid, private nurse. He's romancing his way up a pecking order, somebody's pecking order." He closed his eyes. "Come on, think!"_ _h_ _e told himself sternly._

 _His eyes flared open. "Unless..." He lips twitched in a ghost of a smile._

" _Do you have a secret you've never told anyone?"_

 _They all replied in chorus. "NO."_

 _He smiled in triumph. "Gotcha!"_

" _What do you mean?" John asked who suddenly appeared at his side again._

" _ **Everyone**_ _has secrets, and they all replied too quickly," he explained._

 _Suddenly all the women had an excuse to leave._

" _Gotta go." "See ya."_

" _No!" Sherlock called out._

" _Bye-bye."_

" _Wait!" he said._

" _Sorry, sexy," Vicky told him with a wink. "Some secrets have to stay secret."_

" _Enjoy the wedding," Tessa said with a smile._

 _He sighed exasperated. He opened his eyes and shut down the lid on the laptop he'd used to type messages to Tessa. He straightened himself up._

" _Why?_ _ **Why**_ _would he date all of those women and not return their calls?" he said in anger, while buttoning up his jacket._

" _You're missing the obvious, mate," John said with a grin_

 _Sherlock turned his head to look at him. "Am I?" he asked._

" _He's a man."_

 _Kyrie smirked at the comment while Sherlock was busy slamming the lids down of each of the laptops. "But why would he change his identity?" he questioned._

" _Maybe he's married."_

" _Not all married men are pigs, John!" Kyrie laughed and threw a rolled up pair of socks at his face. They hit him with a small_ _'_ _thu_ _mp'_ _. He laughed and catched them_ _before they could fall down_ _. Sherlock stood still though. He had just realised something._


	55. IT's YOU!

**A/N Not much to say. Just thanks again for reading and reviewing this story. I hope you will, again, be kind enough to leave me a review for this chapter! I think Sherlock would say I'm a review whore. Ah well, I can't help myself :D Any thoughts, ideas, things you liked, things you want me to improve... I welcome all your thoughts!**

 **Katt96 Now look what you did! You made me blush! Again! -grins- Thank you!**

 **Artemis7448 You will find out right now, but you could have taken a sneak peak at the episode itself ;-)**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Ha! You even remembered that 'Hi' at the palace bit! That is so awesome! Again, I have to say I love your reviews. It is so good to know you like how I write Kyrie. That people like to read this story and enjoy it. I think a few more chapters till the end of the episode. They don't leave early exactly, but... they don't really overstay either. If you get my drift ;-) And no, the belt won't serve as a tie for some hot best man, matron of honour sex. They don't need that :-D**

 **Thewickedprincess I absolutely loved writing drunk Sherlock, so for me it wasn't difficult at all. Or do you mean his thought process made little sense? That is true, but, he was completely pissed at the time ^^ And you are absolutely right, even though they are now in a relationship, Sherlock is really not comfortable at the moment yet thinking in terms of 'love'.**

 **DreamonAlina Aw thank you! I'm getting warm and fuzzy inside again! I don't really think Sherlock was entirely in character because... well... you never see him really kiss or be in love on the show. I am glad though that you feel I wrote the chapter in such a way that you could still consider him to be 'in character'. So, thank you!**

SSS

 _Sherlock stood still though. He had just realised something._

"Married," Sherlock said, looking at the guests. "Obvious, really. Our Mayfly Man was trying to escape the suffocating chains of domesticity..."

He saw Kyrie grimace at his words from the corners of his eyes and also Mary and John didn't seem too happy with the statement. Not that he cared. He'd never made it a secret how he felt about marriage. The fact he was now actually married himself didn't change that. It was... different.

"... and instead of endless nights in watching the telly or going to barbecues with awful dreadful boring people he couldn't stand, he used his wits, cleverness and powers of disguise..."

He finally allowed himself to take a breath and he smiled amiably at the guests. "... to play the field. He was..."

Oh... wait... the guests weren't looking all that pleased with his comments. John and Mary didn't look pleased with his comments. He ventured a brief look at Kyrie... uh-oh, she was glaring at him. Bit not good then.

He cleared his throat. "On second thoughts I _probably_ should have told you about the Elephant in the Room. However, it does help to further illustrate how invaluable John is to me," he quickly said.

"I can read a crime scene the way _he_ can understand a human being. I used to think that's what made me special – quite frankly, I still do," he added dryly. "But a word to the wise... Should any of you require the services of either of us, _I_ will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life."

He paused a moment and he looked at his best friend. "Trust me on that – I should know. He's saved mine so many times, and in so many ways."

"Though admittedly," he said, turning his head to face his wife, "He had a bit of help." He flashed her a brief smile. He then turned back to face the guests and held up his phone. "This blog is the story of two men and their frankly ridiculous adventures..."

He smiled in self-jest and the guests chuckled. Clearly self-jest was something they responded well to.

"... of murder, mystery and mayhem. But from now on, there's a new story – a _bigger_ adventure."

He looked back down at his married friends who both smiled happily.

"Ladies and gentlemen, pray charge your glasses and be upstanding," he entreated the guests.

Sherlock picked up his glass and waited as the guests rose to their feet. The photographer was moving in to stand ready with his camera.

Sherlock raised his glass and placed his free hand on the small of Kyrie's back. He frowned at this sudden intimate gesture. He drew in a breath of air and wondered if he should quickly pull back his hand. Looking at the guests, he realised they would see and that would embarrass Kyrie. He did not want to embarrass her.

He swallowed nervously when he realised his fingers were grazing the soft skin on her back, just above the low cut back of the dress. Her skin felt soft, smooth to the touch and it felt as if teeny tiny sparks of electricity jumped from his fingers, to her skin and right back at him again.

Sherlock shook his head and cleared his throat. "Today begin the adventures of Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson," he said, his voice sounding less steady than he'd liked. John sighed in dismay and Mary giggled, hearing John's second name.

"The two reasons why every single one of us is..." He stopped abruptly. He froze on the spot and stared ahead of him. He was vaguely aware of the photographer snapping several shots of him. Every flash of the camera pulled him deeper into his 'Mind Palace'. He barely even noticed it when he released his grip on the champagne glass.

He lowered his hand, the one he'd been holding the glass with. " _What_ did you say?" He asked, pointing at Tessa as they were suddenly back in the Council Chamber of his Mind Palace. He slowly advanced on her.

"You said, 'John _Hamish_ Watson. You _said_ that. You said Hamish," he told her, remembering how she had introduced him and John to the landlord, after the latter had pulled him up to his knees rather roughly when he'd been completely... pissed off his arse.

He circled around Tessa. "How did you know? How did _you_ know his middle name?" He walked backwards, still facing her, giving her a puzzled look. "He never tells _anyone_. He _hates_ it."

He knew that for a fact didn't he? The day he'd seen 'John H. Watson' at the top of John's blog page, he'd been obsessed with finding out his name.

"It took him _years_ to confide in me," he told the women in the Counil Chamber. Well, his birth certificate did anyway.

Sherlock turned and walked toward the Chairman's bench. "And The Woman – she knew..."

He grimaced, remembering that – frankly – awful period. He realised that, had Kyrie not possessed such a forgiving nature, things probably would have turned out very differently.

He also realised now how close he'd come, back then, to completely and single-handedly ruin everything. He felt slightly sick at the thought.

Even John had noticed the 'tension' that back then existed between him and The Woman.

" _Hamish," John had told them, when Sherlock and Irene were locked in an intense staring contest. When they both turned to look at him, he explained his remark. "John Hamish Watson – just if you were looking for baby names."_

"God knows where she is," he muttered.

Always be careful what you wish for. She suddenly appeared right in front of him... He sighed in annoyance, not pleased with the interruption.

Her hair was pinned up, just as he remembered. Her face absolutely flawless, her beauty enhanced by her make-up. And she was stark naked. She looked at him with sultry eyes and reached forward with the intention to stroke his cheek with her finger.

He turned his face and evaded her touch. She arched a delicate brow at him. "That trick won't work a second time," he told her, gesturing at her nude state.

"Oh, so you managed to get the girl?" she asked, smiling at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Yes." He breathed.

"Have you had... dinner... with her yet?" Her eyes turned smoky.

He gulped and merely shook his head.

She tutted as if she was disappointed at him. "You naughty boy," she said throatily, "Have you already forgotten what I told you?"

Sherlock felt a muscle twitch in his cheek.

The Woman leaned in and whispered near his ear. "Never keep a lady waiting..."

She pulled back and cast him a quizzical look. "You are still... planning... on having dinner with her?"

Sherlock groaned in annoyance. "Yes!" he hissed. "Now, out of my head! I am busy."

He turned back to the other women and focussed on Tessa. "There's only one time that name's been made public."

He thought back to the day Mary had been busy designing the wedding invitation. John had been mortified that his full name would be on it. Mary thought it was tradition. Sherlock thought it was hilarious. Kyrie had just laughed either way.

"Enjoy the wedding," Tessa had told him, when she left the chat room, not willing to give up the secret she was keeping.

He pointed at Tessa. "The wedding. You knew about the wedding. More importantly, you'd seen a wedding invitation. Now barely a hundred people had seen that invitation. The Mayfly Man only saw five women. For one person to be in both groups..." He tilted his hand back and forth and pulled a face. "... could be a coincidence."

"Oh, Sherlock..."

He turned hearing that familiar drawl. He looked up and saw Mycroft up on the dais, standing in front of the Chairman's chair. He was looking as high and mighty – and smug – as ever. The five women vanished from his 'Mind Palace'.

"What do we say about coincidence?" he asked.

Sherlock slowly advanced on him. "The universe is rarely so lazy," he responded.

"So, the balance of probability is...?"

"Someone went to great lengths to find out something about this wedding," Sherlock replied, lost in thought.

"What great lengths?" Mycroft encouraged him.

Sherlock stopped his approach, his eyes locked with his brother's. "They lied, assumed false identities."

"Which suggests...?"

"Criminal intent."

"Also suggests...?"

"Intelligence, planning."

"Clearly," Mycroft said haughtily, as if he already knew the answer. Of course he already knew the bloody answer. He _was_ Mycroft after all...

"But more importantly...?" Mycroft let the question linger in the air.

"The Mayfly Man," Sherlock answered softly. "The Mayfly Man is..."

He blinked his eyes and found himself staring at the guests. "... here today," he quietly finished his sentence. He jumped a bit at the sound of his champagne glass smashing on the floor at his feet.

He heard Kyrie stumble a bit with a startled gasp. He raised is head, a bit dazed at his conclusion and the fact he suddenly found himself back. "Ooh, sorry. I..." He puffed out a breath of air in annoyance.

"Sherlock?" Kyrie asked him softly. He raised his hand at her. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he assured her. The Master of Ceremonies hurried towards him. "Another glass, sir?"

He immediately accepted the offered new glass of champagne. "Thank you, yes. Thank you... yes."

He looked at the guests, but didn't see them. He was back with Mycroft in his 'Mind Palace'. "Something is going to happen – right here," Mycroft told him. He blinked his eyes, returning to reality. His mind was racing and he found himself rapidly switching between the present and his 'Mind Palace'. It was disorienting. He needed to focus... _now_.

"Now, where were we?" he asked no one in particular.

 _He blinked his eyes up at Mycroft. "Could be any second," Mycroft said._

Mrs Hudson and Geoff Lestrade seemed to look a bit anxious and he noticed how they shared a brief look with each other.

" _You have control of the room," Mycroft told him._

The weight of Kyrie's hand, softly pressing on his arm pulled him back.

"Ah, yes. Raising glasses and standing up. Very good. Thank you."

" _Don't lose it,"_ _Mycroft told him sternly._

"And down again," Sherlock ordered his guests, motioning them to sit down with his hands.

The guests were clearly confused and started murmuring amongst themselves. Okay... Keep control of the room. His mind was all over the place. He gasped a bit, forcing himself to stay concentrated.

He put his glass down on the table and straightened up. He patted Kyrie's hand and flashed her an assuring smile. "Ladies and gentlemen, people tell you not to milk a good speech – get off early, leave 'em laughing. Wise advice I'll certainly try to bear in mind. But for now..."

He braced himself with one hand against the table and lightly vaulted over to the other side. He heard Kyrie gasp in surprise... so did the guests.

"... part two!" He exclaimed. He started to walk down the central aisle between the tables. He realised he had his task cut out for him... to keep the guests on his hand while at the same time trying to solve the mystery.

"Part two is more action-based. I'm gonna... walk around, shake things up a bit." He looked around at all the guests. Each and every one of the men could be the Mayfly Man. Except maybe for young Archie. Yeah, definitely not him.

"Who'd _go_ to a wedding? That's the question," he asked, spreading his hands. "Who would bother to go to any lengths to get themselves to a wedding?" Sherlock asked his guests, not entirely able to keep the disdain from his voice. _Tone it down Sherlock_ , he admonished himself.

" _Don't lose control of the room..."_ Mycroft reminded him in a whisper.

"Well... _everyone_ ," he said with a wide smile and loudly clapped his hand together. "Weddings are _great_! Love a wedding." He bent backwards slightly, putting some real zest into his words.

Several people weren't fooled of course. Mary and John were muttering softly to each other and Kyrie shot him a worried look.

He pointed at John and walked back along the tables. "And John's great, too! Haven't said that enough. Barely scratched the surface. I could go on all night about the depth and complexity of his... jumpers..."

He scanned the male guests in the room, but he was too occupied trying to keep the speech going while making deductions. All he knew for sure, was that they all could be the Mayfly Man.

"... and he can cook. Does... a... thing... thing with peas..." he told the guests as he continued to pace and looked closely at the male guests. "Once... Might not be peas. Might not be him. But he's got a great singing voice... or somebody does... Wait... that's my wife... She sings."

Sherlock tried to ignore the puzzled glances that John and Mary, and his... wife were sending him... Kyrie! That was it!

"Ever heard her sing? No? You'll get your change... tonight... I really..." he turned back and forth and back and forth again. "... really suggest you stick around for it."

He clenched his teeth and sighed in frustration. "Ahh! Too many, too many, too many, too many!"

Every single man in the room was one big question mark glaring him in the face. It was hard to focus.

He got overwhelmed. He stopped and took a steadying breath. He needed to narrow the list of suspects down, but to do that, he had to look at the guests as if they were a blank slate. There... better.

"Sorry. Too many jokes about John! Now, er..."

He blinked and was back in the Council Chamber, slowly walking towards Mycroft as he looked up at him.

" _Criminal intent,"_ his brother told him.

He shook his head. "Where was I? Ah yes..."

" _Extraordinary lengths."_ Mycroft reminded him.

"Speech!" Sherlock cried out. He pointed towards the top table and grinned round at the guests. "Speech," he said again and clapped his hands back together. "Let's talk about..."

" _All of which is suggestive of...?"_ Mycroft asked. Sherlock looked up at his brother. His eyes widened and his lips began to form the word that had eluded his mind.

"... murder," he said. He blinked and looked back at the guests. Oops, did he say that aloud? He looked over at John and noticed how he had lowered his head while Mary frowned at him. Kyrie sent him a look he recognised as her 'What the hell, Sherlock?' look.

"Sorry, did I say 'murder'? I meant to say 'marriage'." He quickly corrected himself and noticed John perk up a bit again. "But, you know, they're quite similar procedures when you think about it. The participants tend to know each other, and it's over when one of them's dead."

John instantly lowered his head again. Sherlock felt sweat itch in his neck. _Stop this, Sherlock! Stop ruining John and Mary's wedding!_

"In fairness, murder is a lot quicker, though. Janine!" He looked around the guests and caught her eyes. He startled her and her eyes widened in apprehension.

He had to jump-start his brain to go back into deducing mode again. Kissing Kyrie would obviously help him with that, but he could hardly snog his wife in front of all these guests. He had to ease back into making deductions.

Sherlock quickly walked over to stand behind one of the males guests. "What about this one? Acceptably hot?" He grinned at Janine and then cast a glance at the woman sitting next to his victim... um... the guest. The details jumped at him immediately.

"More importantly, his girlfriend's wearing brand-new uncomfortable underwear or whatever she's wearing underneath and hasn't bothered to pick _this_ thread off the top of his jacket... or point out the grease smudge on the back of his neck. Currently, he's going home alone."

He slyly took out his phone again and rapidly began typing a text with his thumb, behind his back.

"Also, he's a comics and sci-fi geek. They're always tremendously grateful – _really_ put the hours in," he accentuated the words by clenching his hand to a fist, making a pumping movement and he pulled a face. He chuckled.

"Geoff, the gents." Sherlock looked over towards Lestrade and jerked his head towards the door. "The loos, now, please."

"It's Greg," Lestrade told him with a scowl.

Sherlock heard Lestrade's phone alerting him to his incoming message.

"Why?" Greg asked as he reached into his pocket.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's _your_ turn," he said, grimacing at Greg while jerking his head towards the door again, willing him to understand his meaning. Thankfully, Greg looked at his phone and read his new text message. As Sherlock was the one who sent it to him, he knew what it said... _Lock this place down._

"Yeah, actually, now you mention it..." Greg said, sounding a bit distracted as he got up. Sherlock pocketed his phone again.

John, understandably, had quite enough of this. "Sherlock, any chance of a... an end date for this speech? Gotta cut the cake," he said with a smile, his voice edged with a slight warning.

 _Don't lose the room._ He smiled widely as Greg walked past him and he pranced down the isle, flailing his hands in an overly dramatic way. "Oh! Ladies and gentlemen, can't stand it when _I_ finally get the chance to speak for once Vatican Cameos."

He said the last words so fast that he knew only two people would get its meaning. Sure enough, he noticed both John and Kyrie sitting up straight in their chairs, shooting each other a meaningful glance. From the brief look of shock that passed Mary's face, John just explained her what that meant. John put his hand over hers in a comforting manner.

Sherlock looked around at the men. At the moment they were all still prime suspects.

" _Narrow it down,"_ Mycroft told him. Sherlock grimaced and screwed his eyes tightly shut. His mind was still a jumbling mess.

" _Narrow it down!"_ Mycroft said, more urgently this time. His mind refused to cooperate.

" _Narrow. It. Down!"_

Sherlock roared in helpless frustration and rage and slapped himself hard on the right cheek.

"No!" he yelled and he slapped himself again on his left cheek. It didn't have the desired results.

"Not you! Not you!" He told Mycroft in anger. Mycroft was not who he needed at the moment. His brother's visage vanished.

He breathed deeply and calmed down and lowered his hands to point his fingers towards the top table. "You," he said, quieter and he pointed at John. He walked over towards his best friend. "It's always you, John Watson. You keep me right."

John raised himself to his feet. "What do I do?"

"Well, you've already done it. Don't solve the murder," he told his friend, looking at him intensely. "Save the life."

He then drew in a sharp breath through his nose and turned to Kyrie.

"And you..." he said, walking over the where Kyrie was seated. He stopped right in front of her. Like John, she also stood up straight. She looked at him with a questioning look in her eyes.

"Think you can give me a bit of a jump-start? Like in Dartmoor?" he asked her quietly. He smiled when he saw her physical reaction to his question. She remembered. Her cheeks flushed becomingly and he couldn't help but feel... pleased... seeing how her body responded to him.

He planted his hands on the top table and leaned forward. He looked at her and waited for her to come to him. She searched his eyes and he knew why she was hesitant. Kissing in front of the guests... it was kind of like making a statement. He found he didn't really care. Most guests would not be surprised to see a husband kissing his wife anyway and the few people who did know the truth... well, they were a bit pre-occupied at the moment.

Kyrie leaned into him, close enough for him to close the final distance. He placed his lips against hers in a soft kiss. He trusted his body to follow up and go through the motions. He quickly flicked his tongue across her bottom lip, coaching her to part her lips for him. When she did and their tongues met, he could feel the electricity spark in his mind, the tiny jolts racing through his brain, reaching the furthest corners of his mind.

He pulled back a bit. "Thank you," he whispered against her lips and gave her a quick peck. She smiled back up at him. He drew in a sharp breath through his nose and turned back towards the guests.

He grimaced at the guests. "Sorry. Off-piste a bit," he said swaying from side to side. "Back now. _Phew_!" he said in a bit of a high pitch and a frivolous gesture of his hands.

Ah... nothing like a good kiss to jolt his brain into action! He clapped his hands together and he looked down at the floor. Back to business. He dropped the fake smile. He lowered his head a bit, raising his eyes to subject everyone present to his piercing gaze. "Let's play Murder," he said.

Behind him, Sherlock could hear how Kyrie and John took their seats again. He prowled forward, letting his eyes dart around the room and steepled his hands in front of his chin as he progressed forward.

"Imagine, if you will, someone's going to get murdered at a wedding. Who exactly would you pick?"

"I think _you're_ a popular choice at the moment, dear," Mrs Hudson reproved him.

Sherlock vaguely gestured behind him. "If someone could move Mrs Hudson's glass just slightly out of reach, that would be _lovely_. More importantly, who could you _only_ kill at a wedding?"

He turned back to look at the guests, both the men and the women, and looked at them with a new idea sparking in his brain. Someone here was going to be a target. But who? That's what he was going to find out.

"Most people you can kill _any_ old place. As a mental exercise, I've _often_ planned the murder of friends and colleagues."

He rubbed his hands together with wicked glee. He walked back along the room and gestured towards John. "Now John I'd poison."

He ignored how Mary nervously looked across to her now husband.

"Sloppy eater – dead easy. I've given him chemicals and compounds – that way, he's never even noticed. He missed a whole Wednesday once, didn't have a clue," he told the guests wryly in his rapid fire way.

"Lestrade's so easy to kill, it's a _miracle_ no-one's succumbed to the temptation." He turned to head towards the back of the room again. "I've got a pair of keys to my brother's house," he said, holding up his hand as if he were dangling a few imaginary keys around. "I could easily break in there and _asphyxiate_ him." He made a gesture with his hands as if her were strangling someone.

"My wife... always around, I can't even _count_ the endless possibilities I could use to off her. "

He abruptly stopped talking. _Don't get carried away, Sherlock! She's not looking very pleased with you at the moment!_

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "... if, if the whim arose."

From the corners of his eyes, he could see Tom lean in towards Molly. "He's pissed, isn't he?" he asked. Sherlock smirked when Molly retaliated by stabbing a plastic fork onto the back of Tom's hand, without even looking at him. He grabbed his hand with a startled and pained look on his face. "Ow!" he exclaimed.

"So, once again, _who_ could you only kill _here_?"

He turned to face the guests. In his mind, he eliminated the guests he could rule out with a twirl of his fingers.

"Clearly it's a rare opportunity, so it's someone who doesn't get out much." _Narrows it down_... he waved away more potential targets.

"Someone for whom a planned social encounter known about months in advance is an exception. Has to be a unique opportunity." _Narrows it down._

"Since killing someone in public is difficult..." _Narrows it down._

"... and killing them in private isn't an option. Someone who lives in an inaccessible or unknown location, then." _Narrows it down._ Only a few possible targets left.

He turned around. "Someone private, perhaps, obsessed with personal security." He faced the last possible victim in the room. It was Major Sholto.

"Possibly someone under threat."

As if sensing Sherlock's gaze, Sholto turned in his seat and looked at him. Sherlock stared back. Of course... He quickly collected all the information available to him.

 _\- He'll **be** there..."_

 _\- Were are you living these days? - Oh, way out in the middle of nowhere."_

 _\- The press and the families gave him hell. He gets more death threats than **you**." _

Sherlock tried to act nonchalantly as he walked over to a nearby table. He slyly nicked one of the name cards on it while pulling out a small pen on a chain, tucked away in his waistcoat.

"Ooh! A recluse, small household staff," he said, remembering the employments of the five women, fitting in nicely. Gardener, cook, private nurse. He scribbled something on the name card.

"High turnover for additional security."

Yes, one of the women was employed as a security officer. He walked over to Sholto's table and casually dropped the name card down in front of him, before turning and walking away again.

"Probably all signed confidentiality agreements."

And that was the reason why the five women had left, to guard their ' _secret_ '.

"There is another question that remains, however – a big one, a huge one: how would you do it? _How_ would you kill someone in public?"

Sherlock saw Sholto carefully pick up the name card. He turned it over to read what was written on it... IT'S YOU.


	56. The Mayfly Man

**A/N After your lovely reviews, and because I'm in a generous mood, I was already on the verge of posting a second chapter today. AND THEN I NOTICED JUDY GAVE ME A REVIEW AGAIN! Time to celebrate! Get the champagne, get the bubblies!**

 **Also, my apologies. The Doc Manager sometimes seems to be pasting words together, even though this is not so in the uploaded file. And I'm too lazy to go back and change that (and the typos). Sorry!**

 **Judygrasham I thought you lost interest in my story when you stopped reviewing. I'm so glad you are still here! I was grinning like a maniac reading your review. And come on... you weren't really looking for Kyrie in the show right? Sherlock in the show never fell in love -sadface- But, I have to admit, I really like the romance unfolding between these two. So, to show you how happy I am you are back... Tadaa! Another chapter. Hope you will review again! -wink wink-**

 **DreamonAlina I love that line so much myself. You know, I've read quite a few fanfics with OC's myself and I've never encountered a fic in which Sherlock says something like that. For some reason he never mentions his OC love interest and it just never sat right with me. Because, in my opinion, just because he's in a relationship, doesn't magically change him into a lovey-dovey love lusty romancing Casanova. So, this was basically my way of showing he is still Sherlock. But yes... he's also in love (even though he hates to admit that fact!). Thank you for your compliment btw. I find it extremely hard to write from his POV and I was more than happy to switch back to Kyrie at the end of that episode.**

 **Katt96 Sherlock is nothing if not entertaining. If you were to get married and Sherlock was attending your wedding... I would instantly buy a ticket and fly over!**

 **Artemis7448 Haha, just a two or 3 more chapters and then that little secret will be revealed!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Yes, you are absolutely right. Molly was really really really pissed about that kiss. That was the downside of writing this bit from Sherlock's POV. He notices everything but is too thick to catch all those longing Mollykins glances. He does know she's infatuated with him, but only uses that when he needs something. In moments like these... he hardly notices her. Poor Molly!**

SSS

Sherlock saw Sholto carefully pick up the name card. He turned it over to read what was written on it... IT'S YOU.

"There has to be a way. This has been planned."

Suddenly young Archie started jumping up and down to draw his attention. "Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes!" he called out.

Sherlock stopped and turned to look at him. He smiled at the young boy. "Oh, hello again, Archie," he said, bending over a bit so their eyes were level. "What's _your_ theory? Get this right and there's a headless nun in it for you," he said wryly.

"The invisible man could do it!" the boy replied excitedly.

Sherlock looked at him blankly for a brief moment. His body was shocked into silence, while his brain was already firing questions at the boy. It ended in an attempt to ask all the questions at the same time. "The who, the what, the why, the when, the where?" Sherlock asked the boy.

"The invisible man with the invisible knife. The one who tried to kill the Guardsman," the boy explained.

Sherlock gasped and straightened himself up, his eyes went wide. His mind was trying to focus on several images at the same time, he focussed on them one after the other...

The wedding plans stuck up on his wall of information.

The wedding invitation announcing the place, date and time of the wedding.

The word 'Venue' inspired flashes of the reception room, but also the barracks with the soldiers parading outside.

The word 'Plan' inspired the mental image of Private Bainbridge standing on guard outside the barracks, his gaze fixed on the tree tourists over the road as they walked away, revealing his stalker to him.

The word 'Rehearsal' inspired the mental image of the Duty Sergeant walking into the shower room, finding Bainbridge's slumped body inside the cubicle and the bloodstained water.

Sherlock grimaced when the word 'Rehearsal' flashed in front of his eyes again. He noticed how Major Sholto got to his feet and picked up his ceremonial sword, propped against a nearby window, to then quietly leave the reception room.

Sherlock turned his head way and closed his eyes, just to open them again just a brief moment later in sudden realisation. "Oh, not just planned. Planned and rehearsed," he said quietly.

He turned back and quickly walked towards the top table, swiping someone's champagne glass from a table in between strides. "Ladies and gentlemen, there will now be a short interlude."

Sherlock skidded to a halt in front of the top table. He turned around and held up the glass. "The bride and groom!" he cheered. The guests looked at one another and seemed to be a bit reluctant to stand back up again. They did so anyway, raising their glasses.

"The bride and groom," they echoed him.

Sherlock instantly turned back and leaned over to John. "Major Sholto's going to be murdered. I don't know how or by whom, but it's going to happen," he said quickly before turning around. He tried to make his way through the guests who were now filed in the aisle, blocking his way.

"'Scuse me, coming through!" he called out, warning them to get out of his way. "Consulting!" he said, pushing through the crowd. When he glanced over his shoulder, he noticed John, Mary and Kyrie following right after him.

Sherlock was standing on a half-landing, partway up the staircase leading to the guest rooms. He screwed his eyes shut and scrunched up his nose, his fingers placed against his temples in deep concentration. John was impatiently pacing beside him.

" _How_ can you not remember which room? You remember everything!" John cried out at him.

"I have to delete _something_!" Sherlock answered him irritably.

Suddenly Mary and Kyrie came swerving around the corner and they pelted up the stairs in between them, both holding up their skirts to keep from tripping over it.

"Two oh seven!" Mary called over her shoulder.

Sherlock shared a brief look with John, before they chased after their wives. Sherlock quickly caught up with them and he grabbed Kyrie's hand to pull her with him. John did the same with Mary and they all hurried up the stairs.

They reached the second floor and Sherlock anxiously knocked on the door of Room 207 and tried the handle. The door was closed. He rattled the door handle and cried out, "Major Sholto? Major Sholto!" He repeatedly slammed the flat of his right hand against the door.

"Major Sholto!" he called out at the man, his voice urgent.

Suddenly Major Sholto responded from behind the closed door. "If someone's about to make an attempt on my life, it won't be the first time. I'm ready."

John walked up towards the door. Sherlock stepped back, standing beside Kyrie, shaking out his right hand and flexing his fingers.

"Major, let us in," John tried to persuade his ex Commanding Officer.

"Kick the door down." Mary urged him.

"I really wouldn't," Major Sholto calmly advised against it. "I have a gun in my hand and a lifetime of unfortunate reflexes."

Sherlock walked closer to the door again. "You're not safe in there, Major Sholto. Whoever's after you, we know that a locked room doesn't stop him."

"The invisible man with the invisible knife," the Major conceded.

"I don't know how he does it, so I can't stop him, and that means he'll do it again."

"Solve it, then," Major Sholto ordered him.

Sherlock looked at the door in shock. "I – I'm sorry?" he asked.

"You're the famous Mr Holmes. Solve the case. On you go." Major Sholto told him.

Sherlock straightened up. He anxiously licked his lips, his eyes darted rapidly from side to side.

"Tell me how he did it and I'll open the door," Major Sholto said, giving them his terms.

John stepped forward again. "Please, this is no time for games. Just let us in! You're in danger!"

"So are you, so long as you're here," Major Sholto shot back.

Sherlock could feel his mind freeze under the stress. He started pacing back and forth across the landing, until Kyrie placed a comforting hand on his arm.

"Please, leave me. Despite my reputation, I _really_ don't approve of collateral damage," Major Sholto said, resigning to his fate, his voice sounding muffled through the door.

"Solve it," Mary told Sherlock. He turned his head to look down at her. "Sorry?"

"Solve it, and he'll open the door, like he said," she explained.

"If I couldn't solve it before, how can I solve it _now_?" he said irritably.

"Because it _matters_ now," she told him.

"What are you talking about?" He shrugged off Kyrie's hand and turned to look at John. "What's she talking about? Get your wife under control!"

"She's right," John said, siding with his wife.

Of course, he should have seen _that_ one coming!

"Oh, _you've_ changed!" He spat at this friend.

"No, she is," John said angrily. He turned and walked right up in front of him, pointing at him as he talked. "Shut up. You are _not_ a puzzle-solver – you never have been. You're a _drama queen._ "

Sherlock's mouth dropped open in shock. He stared at him, unable to retort. When he heard Kyrie chuckle behind him, he turned to look down and scowl at her.

"Now, there is a man in there about to die. _'The game is on_ '," John said sarcastically and pointed at the door in anger. Now, solve it!"

Sherlock bared his teeth at him, more than ready to give him scathing reply.

"Oh, John. Stand aside," Kyrie suddenly ordered him. Sherlock turned to look at her in surprise. She grabbed him by his lapels and looked up at him, her eyes sparking violet fire at him.

"Impress a girl, Mr Holmes," she murmured, her gaze dropping to his lips. There was no time to respond. Kyrie pulled him down while simultaneously raising herself on her toes and firmly planted her lips against his.

Sherlock flailed his hands about, trying to keep his balance as Kyrie kissed him soundly. At first he wanted to protest but his mind was already sparking and lighting up like a Christmas tree. He was vaguely aware how Kyrie pushed him backwards, until his back connected with the wall behind him, and then she sidled up against him and kissed him deeply.

He blinked his eyes in shock before they just closed. Soon he started paying attention to the flashes of images that started to play in his mind.

Private Bainbridge in full uniform, standing at attention. He rotated the man and focussed on the man's white webbing belt.

The image in his mind shifted to Major Sholto, standing in dress uniform. He rotated the man and again focussed on a similar white webbing belt.

The image then shifted to a memory, he recalled the waiter he saw earlier in the kitchen, one of Janine's potential 'catches'. But that was not of interest. What _was_ of interest, was how the waiter had reached down to take hold of the skewer that was pushed through the middle of the joint of beef.

His image shifted again and he imagined Bainbridge unclipping his belt. He thought back to the waiter, slowly pulling the skewer out of the joint. Back to Bainbrigdge, unwrapping his belt from around his waist.

The skewer came free and Sherlock saw blood and juice trickle from the punctured hole.

Back to Bainbridge, stumbling slightly, a look of discomfort on his face. The Duty Sergeant then knocked on the door of the shower cubicle, calling out Bainbridge's name, while Bainbridge himself was slumped on the floor... blood stained water poured out under the door.

Sherlock pulled himself free with a gasp and he opened his eyes again. He smiled down at her, his brilliant wife. She smiled back at him. He ignored the spluttering noises behind them or that infuriatingly knowing smirk that Mary had on her face.

He gently took Kyrie's face in both of his hands and placed a tender kiss on her forehead.

"Thank you," he whispered before turning to look at Mary. "Though, in fairness, _he's_ a drama queen too," he said, pointing at her husband.

"Yeah, I know," she said with a grin.

John frowned. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. "Am I missing something here?" he asked, casting a curious glance at Sherlock and Kyrie.

"Just what's right in front of your nose, honey," Mary said and she affectionately patted him on his chest.

Sherlock released Kyrie and went over to the door. He made sure to speak loudly. "Major Sholto, no-one's coming to kill you. I'm afraid you've already been killed several hours ago."

"What did you say?" the Major asked.

"Don't take off your belt."

"My belt?" he asked, sounding confused.

Sherlock turned around to explain things to his wife and friends. "His belt, yes. Bainbridge was stabbed hours before we even saw him, but it was through his belt. _Tight_ belt, worn high on the waist. Very easy to push a small blade through the fabric and you wouldn't even feel it."

He paused to let his words sink in. John already nodded in understanding. "The-the belt would bind the flesh together when it was tied tight..."

"Exactly," Sherlock told him.

"... and when you took it off..."

"Delayed action stabbing. All the time in the world to create an alibi."

He shook the door handle again, not liking the silence inside of the room. "Major Sholto?"

"So – I was to be killed by my uniform. How appropriate," the man said.

"He solved the case, Major. You're supposed to open the door now. A deal is a deal," Mary said a bit anxiously.

"I'm not even supposed to _have_ this any more. They gave me special dispensation to keep it. I couldn't imagine life out of this uniform. I suppose – given the circumstances – I don't _have_ to. When so many want you dead, it hardly seems good manners to argue."

"Whatever you're doing in there, James, stop it, right now. I _will_ kick this door down," John warned the man who'd obviously been more than just his Commanding Officer. He'd been a friend as well.

"Mr Holmes, you and I are similar, I think."

Sherlock looked down to find Kyrie back at his side. She placed a gentle hand against his cheek. He briefly covered her hand with his, before he turned to the door again.

"Yes, I think we are," Sherlock agreed.

"There's a proper time to die, isn't there?"

Sherlock grimaced when he saw the brief flash of pain cross Kyrie's features. That was something he would have to make up for, preferably for the rest of his life. "Of _course_ there is," he said, agreeing with the Major.

"And one should embrace it when it comes – like a soldier." The Major sounded as if he had come to peace with what he thought he needed to do.

"Of _course_ one should," Sherlock told him firmly. "But not at John's _wedding_. We wouldn't _do_ that, would we – you and me? We would _never_ do that to John Watson."

Sherlock stepped away from the door. There wasn't anything more he could do or say. He didn't resist when Kyrie wrapped her arms around his waist. He encircled her shoulders to pull her closer to him instead.

"I'm gonna break it down," John said with a grim look on his fate.

"No, wait, wait, you won't have to," Mary told him.

They all looked at the door, holding their breaths in anticipation. When the door opened and Sholto appeared in the doorway, they all exhaled in relief. Sherlock and Sholto briefly regarded each other, before the latter lowered his eyes to then look up at John.

"I believe I am in need of medical attention," he said gravely.

"I believe I am your doctor," John said, nodding at him. He followed Sholto into his room. Mary flashed him a brief smile before she too followed her husband. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. It was hard to believe that today he not only managed to solve the Mayfly Man mystery, but also helped to save a life. He held his hand out to Kyrie and they both stepped inside the room together.


	57. The Photographer Did It!

**A/N OMG Imagine my surprise this morning when I saw how many reviews I'd gotten over night! So, I'm just gonna make a small announcement and then jump straight into responding to the reviews!**

 **First of all. I added my own little '3' to this episode of 'The Signs of Three'. Because, apparently, John needs to see Sherlock and Kyrie kiss 3 times before he realises that something is up between them. Where's the third kiss, you might ask? Read on, dear reader, read on!**

 **Second... The secret of the belt... will be unveiled NEXT chapter. Sorry to keep you waiting just a bit longer -cough, no I'm not, cough-**

 **Third, and last, you know what's coming, so just to give a fair warning, the rating AFTER the next chapter will be M for mature content.**

 **On to the reviews.**

 **Katt96 Hmm, now we just have to find a way to lure Sherlock to your wedding! Let the deer stalking begin!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Fanfiction is being a bitch lately. I noticed too. Tried to see what the new chapter looked like, saw Katt had left a review... but couldn't even view my newest damn chapter! Ooh I love that choice of words... firing on all pistons... I might use that at some point! Thanks for your lovely review! I love how you noticed how Sherlock took her by the hand! Yes, he is absolutely head over heels in love with her. He's just being a little bitch about it ;-)**

 **Artemis7448 You will get to see John's reaction next chapter. Sorry!**

 **DreamonAlina Hang on to your seat girl, it will only get hotter in the next few chapters!**

 **EllemichelleP Another reviewer I thought I had lost! Woohoo! Glad to know you still like my story and you are still with me! Thank you for leaving me a review!**

 **Kuppcake Thank you! And um... Just wait till next chapter! I love that bit!**

 **Judygrasham Yeah Archie is a great MacGuffin :-) I really enjoyed writing their little scenes. And thanks for your humongous compliment. I always worry that I write Sherlock too OOC, especially now the romance part is developing and I need to figure out myself how he would respond in an 'in character' kind of way. So, THANK YOU!**

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 **Phew. Got em all, I think! Now... on to the story!**

SSS

The sounds of an orchestral rendition of the waltz 'An der schönen blauen Donau' by Johann Strauss II, floated towards them in the foyer of the wedding venue. Sherlock was alone with Kyrie, they were waltzing by themselves.

He supported her frame by a steady placement of his right hand on her left shoulder blade. The crook of his arm supported hers as she held on to his right upper arm. Their joined hands were raised to just above shoulder height, their arms stretched out.

Kyrie had a contented smile on her lips. Sherlock smiled down at the woman he held in his arms. Dancing had always been a guilty pleasure of him. It felt... strange... to dance this way.

She made a few missteps here and there, where she interpreted the movement differently than he had intended but he easily adapted to her so they kept dancing in perfect harmony.

And so he guided her across the foyer as if they were in a dream. Every moment, every angle was planned and advanced. Nothing felt forced. She followed him with an easy grace that gave him the sense of floating, rather than dancing.

She allowed him to take her anywhere he pleased in their secluded little corner. He went right. She followed. He sped up. She sped up.

Kyrie locked her eyes with his. With a small intake of air, Sherlock shifted the hand on her shoulder blade to her waist, stepping closer towards her. Her hand on his arm slid up over his shoulder.

Suddenly they had stopped dancing. He quickly released her, clearing his throat. Etiquette would probably dictate a comment about her dancing skills. He stayed silent instead.

"So," Kyrie started looking up at him. "Why are we rehearsing?"

He frowned at her. "Because we are about to dance together in public and we only had a brief moment of road-testing this morning. I wanted to make sure we are 'in tune' for the real thing."

"And, are we 'in tune' enough for your tastes?" she asked him.

He opened his mouth but closed it again. "You... dance well." He decided on saying.

Her laughter bubbled up at him. "Well, you're a brilliant dancer," she said, smiling up at him.

"Mm, thank you," he said quietly, accepting her praise. He looked down at her and then leaned in, "I'll let you in on something, Kyrie," he whispered.

"Go on, then," she said, her eyes sparkling. God, how he'd missed those violet little lights, dancing in her eyes. Though they were still not as violet as he remembered they could be. He blinked a few times and cleared his throat again. "I _love_ dancing. I've _always_ loved it."

"Really?" she said with a grin.

He looked over her shoulder into the hallway next to them, to make sure no one was watching or coming over.

"Watch out," he told her quietly. He quickly looked behind him as well, to make absolutely sure that nobody else but her could see him. He briefly sucked in his lower lip when he turned back round again. He then swung both of his arms to the left, rose onto the ball of his left foot and performed a full-circle pirouette.

He smirked when he saw how Kyrie clasped her hands in front of her mouth in surprise. She grinned and quirked an eyebrow at him. "Okay," she said with a smile. "If I were to tell you... that was seriously hot... Would you try and find the nearest door to escape? 'Cause if so, I'll just say that was brilliant."

Sherlock looked down at her and blinked his eyes at her statement. His first reaction was to tense up, as he was used to do whenever the subject of _attraction_ came up. He suddenly remembered the words of The Woman. _Never keep a lady waiting_.

"No," he murmured softly. "I don't think I would." He looked into her eyes and held back a smirk when this time he'd managed to unnerve her. They've been at this game of pulling in and pushing away for quite some time now...

He swallowed back a lump. "Never really comes up in crime work but, um, you know, I live in hope of the right case."

"And otherwise you'll always have me," she said softly. When he looked into her eyes, he saw the promise in there, that she wouldn't go anywhere.

"I know he," he said. He fought the urge to kiss her, not exactly trusting his own body to behave at the moment. For once, he was glad when John sauntered into the foyer and spotted them. He walked over.

"Well, glad to see you've pulled, Sherlock, what with murderers running riot at my wedding," he said dryly, clasping his hand on Sherlock's back.

" _One_ murder... One _nearly_ murderer..." Sherlock said in indignation. He looked at Kyrie. "Loves to exaggerate. You should try living with him."

She laughed out loud at his comment. "I did, remember? And I'm stuck with you now!"

He smirked at her. They looked up when the main entrance door opened. "Sherlock?" Lestrade appeared in the doorway and pointed out the door. "Got him for you."

He clapped his hands together with glee. "Ah, the photographer. Excellent! Thank you," he said, looking at Lestrade before turning towards the photographer. He pointed at the camera he was holding.

"Um, may I have a look at your camera?" he asked, holding out his hand.

"Er..." The photographer looked slightly nervous and clutched the camera in his hands, before he held it out to him. "... What's this about? I was halfway home!" he said.

"You should have driven faster." Sherlock remarked, giving him a look when he took the camera. He started flicking though the pictures he could see on the screen of the camera. "Ah, yes. Yes, very good. There, you see?" He paused, a smile curving his lips. "Perfect," he nearly whispered.

"What is? You gonna tell us?" Lestrade asked curiously, he was leaning over with his hands clasped behind his back.

Sherlock handed him the camera. "Try looking yourself."

John instantly walked over to Greg. "Um, look for what?" he asked as Kyrie also curiously walked over, trying to get a look at the pictures.

Sherlock however, stepped closer to the photographer.

"Is the murderer in these photographs?" John asked, pointing at the camera.

"It's not what's _in_ the photographs; it's what's _not_ in them – not in _any_ of them," he explained.

"Sherlock? The showing-off thing... We've discussed it before," John told him with a pointed look.

"Oh come on, John! It's your wedding. Sherlock was an awesome best man _and_ he helped save Major Sholto. Allow him some fun!"

John stared at her and Sherlock briefly raised himself on his toes with a pleased smirk. Another perk he'd noticed about being married to Kyrie... She'd become... quite defensive of him. Usually got him out of a spot of trouble.

"There is always a man at a wedding who is not in any photograph but can go anywhere, and even carry an equipment bag around with him if he likes, and you never even see his face," Sherlock explained as he approached the photographer. His gaze drifted down towards the man's hand. "You only ever see..."

He saw it clearly in his head... the one man going round the reception, shooting pictures, without ever appearing in one himself. He could go out and about as he pleased because no one paid attention to him anyway.

Sherlock swiftly slapped a pair of handcuffs around the photographer's wrist and the other cuff around the frame of a nearby birdcage luggage trolley.

"... the camera," he finished his sentence.

"What are you doing? What _is_ this?" the photographer asked in indignant surprise.

Sherlock held up is phone to show what was on his screen. Information. "Jonathan Small, today's substitute wedding photographer – known to us as the Mayfly Man. His brother was one of the raw recruits killed in that incursion," Sherlock explained. He felt a bit sorry, seeing the confused look on Kyrie's face.

It happened sometime ago and though the event was covered in the news, it hadn't been a widespread story. Also... she'd still been grieving.

He turned to face her. "Major Sholto, while in Afghanistan, led a group of new recruits, also called crows, into battle," he explained her, owning him a look of approval from his best friend, for remembering.

"Though this is standard army procedure, Sholto's journey went wrong. All the new recruits, including the eighteen year old Peter Small, died and he was left as the only survivor. He received the Victoria Cross for surviving the battle, but many people viewed him badly for letting the new soldiers die."

He turned his attention back to Jonathan. "Jonny sought revenge on Sholto, worked his way through Sholto's staff, found what he needed... an invitation to a wedding. The one time Sholto would have to be out in public. So, he made his plan..."

He briefly thought back to Bainbridge and how Jonathan would have practised the murder on him, probably by taking a selfie with the man while quickly stabbing a small blade through his belt.

"... and rehearsed the murder, making sure of every last detail."

Jonathan scowled as Sherlock revealed in full detail his carefully designed murder. "Brilliant, ruthless, almost certainly a monomaniac," he said, giving Jonathan a pointed look. "Though, in fairness, his photographs are actually quite good."

He quickly tossed his phone to Lestrade who barely managed to catch it. "Everything you need's on that. You probably ought to... arrest him or something."

Sherlock noticed Mary walking past, probably looking for John. When she spotted them, she smiled and made her way over. Kyrie leaned closer to him. "Do you _always_ carry handcuffs?" she asked a bit breathlessly.

"Down, girl," he admonished her lightly but filed away her... interest... for future reference. He also filed away the current flush on her cheeks as her reaction to his words.

Mary held out her hand to John. "Come on, quick!" She beamed at him. The moment she reached his side, John wrapped an arm around her. That's when she noticed Jonathan Small. Sherlock noticed that Jonathan had been staring at him with a fixed gaze the entire time. He suddenly opened his mouth to speak. "It's not _me_ you should be arresting, Mr Holmes," he said with a level voice, no emotional intonation to it, whatsoever.

"Oh, _I_ don't do the arresting," he said, waving away the words. He nodded in Lestrade's direction. "I just farm that out."

"Sholto, _he's_ the killer, not me. I should have killed him quicker," he smirked heinously. The moment he did, he felt Kyrie pressing herself against him. She was shivering. He furrowed his brows and took a better look at the man. Then he understood.

Jonathan Small was showcasing a similar ruthlessness as Gerulf Schricken possessed. He imagined the very thought of him could still instil her with fear after all the things he'd done. He gently circled his arm around her waist, allowing her to seek comfort with him.

Jonathan shook his head. "I shouldn't have tried to be clever," he said wistfully.

"You should have driven faster," Sherlock replied to him, his voice soft.

He then withdrew his arm from around Kyrie's waist and crooked it to her. She instantly took it and they walked away together. Sherlock trusted Lestrade to take things from there.

SSS

In the reception room, the tables had been cleared away. Sherlock had his eyes locked on the couple currently dancing across the room in a slow waltz to the melody to the music he had composed for them.

Mary and John, they looked into each other's eyes, and even Sherlock could see them overflowing with love. He felt a slight pang near his heart. Though it had been his own choice in life to not involve himself in any emotions and distractions that kept him from his work, now that he wanted his relationship with Kyrie to be... more... he envied his friends for making it look so easy.

Sherlock gently swayed as he drew his bow across the strings. They looked well together. The picture was... right. His eyes shifted to his wife who, just like the other guests, was standing around the edge of the room to watch the couple dance.

As if she could feel his attention on her, she turned her face to look over at him. Her full lips curved in a smile, her eyes too filled with emotion. His gaze briefly drifted over her alluring figure. The dress she was wearing fitted her well, like a second skin. He was happy to see her... normal... again.

Just after his return, it had been quite unsettling to find a woman who appeared to be no more than a ghost of the woman he'd left behind. The violet had been absent from her eyes, a sharpness and aloofness to her that hadn't been there before, her body frail and gaunt.

They said time could heal all wounds and Kyrie certainly was proof of that. Her eyes were even sparkling violet again. It just seemed as if... something was still missing... He couldn't quite place his finger on it.

As he neared the end of his song, he smiled seeing as John shifted one hand to Mary's back, held her by the waist with his other hand and carefully started to dip her backwards. Mary gasped in surprise.

"Really?!" She giggled. John chuckled in response and dipped her backwards. He kissed her gently as Sherlock looked on as the last notes died away.

The guests broke into applause and cheers. They were all looking at the happy couple. Except for his wife; she was applauding for him. And, just as he'd done such a long time ago, he turned his body in her direction, placed one hand at his back while curving the other in front of him... and bowed deeply.

When he straightened himself up he winked at her. He looked back at John who just pulled Mary upright. Mary laughed, looking perfectly happy. John quickly shot up his hand at him in thanks before he pulled Mary in for another kiss.

Sherlock carefully put away his violin and bow and stepped up to one of the two nearby microphones. "Ladies and gentleman, I told you earlier you would get the chance to hear my wife sing tonight. I wasn't lying. She is in fact going to sing," he smiled when he saw John and Mary turning at each other, laughing in surprise.

"For those of you who have the immense pleasure of actually knowing her... You know that this is... a big deal for her. It goes to prove even further just how important John and Mary are – not just to me – but to... _us_. Please, give it up for my extremely talented wife, Kyrie _Holmes_ and her friend Kathryn Hawkins."

He was a bit surprised to notice with how much pride he had made that statement. It was an unusual sensation, one that had kind of sneaked up on him.

Sherlock lightly hopped off the stage, as Kyrie made her way up to it. As they passed, their fingers met, just briefly. It was just a fleeting touch, but it made him turn around to watch her intently as she took the stage.

John and Mary hurried over to him.

"Is she actually doing it?" John asked incredulously. "Is she really going to sing?"

Sherlock gave him a small smile and nodded his head. "Yes," he confirmed, his voice soft.

"Oh, my God!" John breathed. "She's afraid of singing in public," he quickly explained to Mary. "She only sings for small groups and only people she knows. The one time I've ever seen her sing in public was..." He abruptly stopped talking, giving Sherlock an awkward look.

"At my funeral," Sherlock said dryly. "I know, I was there. Again... Sorry."

"It was the last time I heard her sing," John said, his voice suddenly sounding a bit thick. Mary gave him a sympathetic look and rubbed his back. He nodded his head in assurance and pecked her on her forehead.

The three of them watched in anticipation when another woman joined Kyrie on the low stage. Sherlock furrowed his brows in confusion. _That_ was Janine's sister? He searched the room and when he found Janine and met her eyes, she just laughed at him.

He returned his attention to the stage. Kathryn Hawkins was the complete opposite of Janine. Where Janine was a brunette with brown eyes, Kathryn was a blonde with blue eyes. Though her hair did not have the same golden glow his wife's hair seemed to possess.

Suddenly behind them, they heard the sounds of cross flutes accompanied by softly trilling violin notes drifting closer. They turned around in surprise to try and found the source.

They hardly had time to look because soon the melodious sounds of a set of viola's joined in, somewhere at the side.

All the present guests turned around and started to mumble amongst themselves, trying to find out what was going on.

Suddenly, somewhere in the front, they saw a man stand up with a woodwind bassoon, very briefly letting them hear the instrument.

To the front right, guests stepped aside when two cellists started playing their cello.

The musical notes combined in beautiful harmony, in a melody that Sherlock recognised... and loved.

Kathryn and Kyrie smiled at each other when the music swelled and a harp, somewhere, joined in.

"Belle nuit, ô nuit d'amour. Souris à nos ivresses," Kathryn started to sing the mezzo-soprano role of Offenbach's famous Barcarolle. _Lovely night, oh, night of love. Smile upon our joys!_

"Nuit plus douce que le jour. Ô, belle nuit d'amour!" she continued, with her rich and deep voice. _Night much sweeter than the day. Oh beautiful night of love!_

And then his wife joined in, her soprano voice sweeter than he'd ever heard before. Sherlock swallowed hard when he heard her sing. "Le temps fuit et sans retour. Emporte nos tendresses" T _ime flies by, and carries away... Our tender caresses for ever!_

"Loin de cet heureux séjour. Le temps fuit sans retour" _Time flies far from this happy oasis_  
 _And does not return._

Suddenly Kyrie's voice rose high, "Zéphyrs embrasés." _Burning zephyrs._ While Kathryn echoed her in a deeper tone.

The intensity dropped just a bit when she sang "Versez-nous vos caresses" _Embrace us with your caresses!_

Sherlock could feel a million tiny, cold pinpricks running up and down his arms and spine when the intensity of her voice suddenly came back, her voice perfectly trilling around the words, caressing them.

"Zéphyrs embrasés. Donnez-nous vos baisers!" she sang. _Burning zephyrs. Give us your kisses!_

Kyrie then followed Kathryn's deeper voice through a repetition of,"Vos baisers! Vos baisers! Ah!"

The instruments played in flawless harmony with Kyrie and Kathryn, embellishing their crystal clear voices. It all came together perfectly, into a truly, beautifully performed song.

They toned down again, just a bit, sweetly repeating the first lines of the song, until Kyrie's voice started rising again near the end of, "Ô, belle nuit d'amour!"

From where he was standing, he could see how much emotion she was putting in the song, because it started pouring from her eyes.

He breathed in sharply through his nose when he suddenly realised what element had been missing. The element that Kyrie now rediscovered and finally brought her back to him, when she sang, "Ah! souris à nos ivresses!"

Sherlock noticed Mary leaning into John as he wrapped an arm around her. Mary wiped at her eyes and John looked up at Kyrie, overcome by emotion himself when he too noticed what was happening. "Look who's back," he whispered, almost reverently. "It's about time!"

In the meantime, Kyrie and Kathryn finished the song with a last repetition of, "Nuit d'amour, ô, nuit d'amour! Ah! ah! Ah!"

When their voices stilled and the last notes of the song drifted away, the room erupted with cheers, applauds and wolf whistles.

For a moment, all he could do was stare at her as she stood there, gloriously, with Kathryn, while shyly accepting the applause and praise.

His body started moving of its own accord. He hardly noticed how he pushed people out of his way. He hardly noticed anything, until he was standing on the stage, towering over her. From the corners of his eyes, he saw Kathryn discreetly leaving the stage.

Sherlock clenched and unclenched his fingers as he looked down at her. Kyrie turned her face up to meet his eyes. In them he could read her surprise and the emotion still lingering there.

As he cupped her face with both of his hands, he vaguely realised this wasn't just a step. This was a big giant leap... and a fall. Only this time, he was falling voluntarily.

Before his mind could regain the rigid control over his emotional side his body jumped at the opportunity and he seized possession of her beguiling lips with his in a kiss that thoroughly blotted out any objection his mind might want to put forth.

Kyrie had tensed the moment their lips met, but Sherlock could already sense her giving in to his touch. Their kiss slowly built as his body demanded more, as if a dam was slowly breaking under pressure.

His mind finally stepped in. It now seemed willing, albeit begrudgingly, to reconcile with the fact his body had developed cravings and would no longer allow to be ignored. But, for now he knew he had to reel himself back in. There was a time and place to explore these new sensations. This wasn't it.

He finally dragged his lips away from her mouth and planted a lingering kiss on her cheek. He smiled noticing the glazed look in her eyes. Fine, maybe it was a bit mean to just spring this on her, but when had he ever bowed to convention? He expected convention to bow to him, not the other way around.

And Kyrie knew this, just as she'd always known and she was still here. In other words, she knew perfectly well to always expect the unexpected with him.

He circled his arm around her waist and stepped up to the microphone for the second time that evening.

Only then did he notice the unusual quiet in the room and he found the guests staring up at them with various expressions of shock, surprise... even horror. You'd think they'd never seen a bloody kiss before!

He cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen," he started and he forced his lips to smile. "I think that's enough surprise for one evening. Just, er, one last thing before the evening begins properly. Apologies for earlier," he stated, shifting back easily to his usual collected and aloof state.

"A crisis arose and was dealt with." He drew in a deep breath. "More importantly, however, today we saw two people make vows. I've only ever made one vow in my life and after tonight I never will again. So, here in front of you all, my second and last vow."

Sherlock turned his face to look at his two closest friends. They looked back at him, their faces beaming with happiness. Well, Mary's was anyway. John looked... shocked.

"Mary and John... Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will _always_ be there. W _e_ will always be there. _Always_ , for all three of you."


	58. Bombs Away

**A/N First of all, apologies for the late update. I had a lot of other stuff to to. But... Here it is! The last chapter of 'The Signs of Three'! And yes... You will see John's response to the 3 kisses and you guys will finally find out what Kyrie's little secret was (the belt).**

 **One word of advise, go to youtube and listen to Gotan Project Santa Maria when you get to the appropriate... point in the story. Just saying!**

 **WARNING: You guys all know what's coming after this chapter. So, I will change the rating to M. I will put another warning at the beginning of the next chapter. But, a warning here as well so you know what's coming. I will leave it up to you if you want to read stuff like that or not.**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Thank you, thank you -blushes- I really would have loved writing a little Molly scene, but Sherlock is completely oblivious to her at the moment. Though, there is a very little mention in this chapter ;-)**

 **Katt96 I don't know where your blanket is! You really think you need one? I mean... I was throwing stuff off writing this... if you get what I mean ;-)**

 **Guest I'm very sorry, but I really couldn't do the update earlier than this. I hope you will still like this chapter. Can I still has cookies?**

 **EllemichelleP Aww! I don't like to read you are in pain! I hope you will feel better soon and I'm glad to know my story helps a bit. Consider this chapter dedicated to you!**

 **Leahxxc Thank you for you review. The only reason why I've been able to update daily, I because I had already written A LOT before I finally started publishing the story. I need to hurry up though because I'm only 1 episode ahead of you guys right now and when you gain up with me... that will be it for the daily updates!**

 **DreamonAlina Lol Relax sweetie! Now... calm your beating heart, breath in, breath out... and enjoy this chapter! -grins-**

 **SSS**

He gasped in sudden realisation and promptly began to stutter. "Er, I'm sorry, I mean – I mean two of you. All _two_ of you. _Both_ of you, in fact. I've just miscounted."

 _Oops!_ He took a quick breath. Time for a distraction. "Anyway, it's time for dancing. Play the music, please, thank you," he requested the DJ.

He gave Kyrie a slightly mortified look. Thankfully disco lights began to flash. Sherlock gestured his hands at the guests in an attempt to get them moving.

"Okay, everybody, just dance," he said as the song 'Oh What A Night' started playing, by Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons. "Don't be shy!"

He dragged Kyrie off the stage, along with him. "Dancing please," he ordered and he was glad to see how the guests started to move onto the floor and began to dance to the music.

"Very good!" he said as they quickly walked over to where John and Mary were standing, staring at him with identical quizzical looks on their faces.

"Sorry, that was one more deduction than I was really expecting," he said apologetic.

"You just can't help yourself can you?" John burst out, "You just can't help but keep dropping bombs on us!"

Mary looked up at him in surprise as John looked from one to the other. Her lips suddenly turned up in a knowing smile. Sherlock rolled his eyes. _She knew._ He cast a brief look at Kyrie and sighed. _Of_ _course she bloody knew!_

"How long has _this_ been going on?" he asked, pointing between the two of them. Kyrie, for once, did not feel inclined to comment.

Okay, this was awkward. He did not like having to _talk_ about it. He looked up at the ceiling, as if he would find the words to say over there. He shuffled his feet.

"Well?" John asked impatiently.

"When I was released from the hospital, John," Kyrie finally decided to help him out. He released the breath he didn't even realise he'd been holding.

"Sherlock expressed a wish to see how things would develop, instead of starting a divorce and going our separate ways. He..." Kyrie said, looking up at him with a questioning look of her own in her eyes, "... wanted to keep it private."

John eyed the two of them. "Well," he said after a moment, "It ain't private any more, mate."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "It changes very little, to the outside world we were already married anyway. The few people who did know about the – _special –_ circumstances of our marriage... it was just a select group. I'm sure they can handle the change.

"Can _you_ though?" John asked, earning him a swat on his arm by his own wife.

"You think I would have done _that_ if I couldn't?" he asked dryly.

"Well, it certainly took you long enough!" John scoffed. "How long have you guys been married now?"

Sherlock blinked at him, suddenly feeling very awkward.

"About five years," Kyrie told him with a smile.

"In my defence," Sherlock started and he averted his eyes to look at the floor. "I was away for two of them."

"Not a good defence, Sherlock," John said, shaking his head. "It took you _five_ bloody years to realise you're crazy about your own wife." He grinned broadly.

"We-ell," Sherlock started to say.

John pointed a finger at him in warning. "No, you _are_!" he said. "You _are_. You've come this far, so you can stop being a cock about it. No back paddling!

"I'm never going to live this down, am I?" Sherlock asked Mary.

She grinned up at him. "Nope, and even if John forgets... He'll have me to remind him."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. "You are just as bad as him."

"So um, what was your 'deduction' again?" Mary asked him with a bright smile.

He swallowed. Right, his earlier mistake. Well, at least it would distract them and keep John from fawning over the change in his own personal atmosphere.

He gave Mary an intense look. "Increased appetite... you nearly attacked that canapé and the food at the reception. Change of taste perception... you nearly gagged at the taste of the wine you chose yourself. And you were sick this morning... you assumed it was just wedding nerves. You got angry with me when I mentioned it to you? All the signs are there," Sherlock said.

"The signs?" Mary echoed him, her face scrunched up in confusion.

Sherlock briefly shot an awkward look at John. He swallowed before he looked back at her. "The signs of three," he explained, letting his gaze briefly drop to her abdomen.

"What?" she gasped.

"Mary, I think you should do a pregnancy test," he said, not knowing how he could make it any clearer.

Kyrie gasped at the revelation, Mary had a grin of pure delight on her face, while John sighed and dropped his head. Almost doubling over as he too was hit with the realisation.

Sherlock started to stutter, not sure how to otherwise respond to this sudden subject. "W... th... the statistics for the first trimester are..."

John instantly straightened himself. "Shut up!" He ordered Sherlock.

He froze just in the middle of forming his next word. He looked at John. _So, stop the explanation thing then?_

"Just... shut up," John told him again.

 _Okay, apparently that was a yes._

"Sorry," he said apologetic. He briefly looked down when Kyrie was suddenly hugging his arm. She had a wide and, frankly ridiculous, grin spread across her face.

John turned to look at Mary, he seemed absolutely annoyed with himself. "How did _he_ notice before me? I'm a bloody doctor," he said, sounding a bit aggravated.

"It's your day off," Sherlock told him.

"It's _your_ day off!" John shot back.

"Stop-stop panicking."

"I'm not panicking!"

"I'm pregnant – _I'm_ panicking," Mary said, joining in.

"Don't panic. None of you panic," Sherlock ordered his friends. He sounded a bit stern he realised and softened when he saw that both John and Mary actually did look terrified. Kyrie let go off his arm and pulled Mary in for a hug.

"Absolutely no reason to panic," Sherlock told them, his voice softer this time.

"Oh, and you'd know, of course?" John's voice was oozing with sarcasm.

"Yes, I _would!"_ Sherlock told him, feeling a bit affronted. _How could they not see the obvious?_ "You're already the best parents in the world. Look at all the practice you've had!"

"What practice?" John asked him, giving him a puzzled look.

"Well, you're hardly gonna need _me_ around now that you've got a _real_ baby on the way."

Sherlock looked at John's hilarious look on his face and he smirked at him. John suddenly erupted in elated laughter and reached up to cup the back of Sherlock's neck. Kyrie and Mary, still clinging together, broke out in jubilant laughter as well.

Kyrie let go of Mary and stepped back, wiping at her eyes with her hand. John released Sherlock's neck and clasped Mary's shoulder with one hand and briefly Sherlock's shoulder with his other hand.  
He looked absolutely giddy with sudden excitement at the prospect of fatherhood.

Sherlock swallowed and found he could no longer maintain his smile. He tried to keep it up, for his friend, who was so happy right now.

John then turned to Mary. "You all right?" he asked her. "Yeah," she said, beaming up at him.

John turned his head to look at Sherlock again, the joyful look still spread over his face. Sherlock couldn't... He swallowed back another lump. As if marriage wasn't big enough of a chance... His friends were now expecting a baby. He realised there was truth in his words.

They would no longer need him. What place could he still hope to have in their lives? He would still be around of course. He had made a vow after all. But in what way would he be involved? What capacity?

John seemed to catch on as well because he could no longer maintain eye-contact.

Sherlock stood there, suddenly feeling awkward, as if he was trespassing on a private moment.

Except... he hadn't taken Kyrie into consideration. To his surprise she flung herself at both Mary and John. "I am so happy for you!" she cried out. "John, you are going to be a daddy! Mary..." Kyrie pulled back and looked at her friend. "You're going to be a mummy! I am going to have so much fun with you and the baby while the guys are out," she said, grinning at her friend.

"Excuse me, what?" John asked her. Sherlock too cast a puzzled look at his wife.

Kyrie turned around, flung her arm around Mary's shoulders and arched a delicate brow at him and John.

"What, don't tell me you guys were thinking of taking the baby out on cases?" she said, sounding a bit sarcastically.

"No, of course not!" John cried out, "But, but..."

"But, but what?" Kyrie asked, "You think I would just leave Mary on her own, fending for herself, alone with Baby Watson while you boys traipse all over London solving cases?"

"No?" Sherlock said, sounding hesitantly. With just a few words, Kyrie was painting a picture that seemed too good to be true. A picture of Kyrie, John and Mary... _Baby Watson_... and _him_ firmly in it as well.

He cast a curious glance in John's direction, wondering what John thought of it. Apparently, John wasn't even allowed an opinion because Mary made the decision for him. Tears were welling in her eyes when she clasped Kyrie's hands in hers.

"You know, Sherlock maybe John's best friend, but _you_ are my best friend," she said, smiling through her tears. "You _are_ with me in this, right?" she asked.

Kyrie grinned at her. "Duh, of course I am!"

She then turned around and gave him and John a meaningful look. "Um, Sherlock, you did an amazing job planning this wedding and you were an all-round brilliant best man... But..." she said, giving him a pointed look. "You know the _baby shower_ will be _my_ project, right?"

Mary gasped in delight. "Baby shower!" she said on an exhale.

Both Sherlock and John gave her blank looks.

"Um... meaning?" John ventured after a moment.

"Meaning... There will be days me and Mary will kick your butts out. I'm sure you guys can manage to find a way to entertain yourselves when we have some serious planning to do. And I'm not just talking baby shower here."

"You're not?" Sherlock dared to ask.

"Of course not! I'm talking about the whole kit and caboodle here. Or do you really think stuff is just gonna buy and plan itself?"

"Baby stores!" Mary gasped in delight.

Sherlock dared another look at John who he found to be staring at both of their wives with his mouth wide open. He suddenly straightened himself and cast Sherlock a sideways glance.

"You'd think we'd have any say in this..." he muttered.

Sherlock snorted. "When did we ever? Not since those two met anyway..."

He suddenly straightened up when he noticed guests were starting to send them curious looks.

"Dance," he said abruptly.

"Mm?" John looked up at him.

"Both of you, now, go dance. We can't just stand here. People will wonder what we're talking about."

"Right," John said, glancing around him.

"Thank you," Mary said, her voice thick with emotion, as she reached out and touched his arm.

Sherlock dropped his gaze to her.

"Thank you, for today. You made this the _best_ wedding ever."

Sherlock just nodded at her with a little smile. John cleared his throat making Mary look back up at him again. "Come on, husband. Let's go."

John looked at her with a smile and pointed over his shoulder. "This isn't a waltz, is it?"

"No," she giggled through her tears.

"Don't worry, Mary, I _have_ been tutoring him," Sherlock remarked dryly.

"Actually," John said, " _They_ have. Baker Street, behind closed curtains."

He turned to face her and took her in his arms for a dance. "Mrs Hudson came in one time. Don't know how _those_ rumours started!" He sniggered humorously. Mary giggled and put her left hand on his right shoulder and they danced off into the crowd. Mary threw one last glance over her husband's shoulder and mouthed another 'thank you' at him.

He smiled at her and gave her a quick nod. He then looked at the woman still standing beside him. The song had just ended and shifted to 'Walking on Sunshine' by Katrina & the Waves.

"What do you think?" Kyrie asked as she looked up at him. He paused to gave the question some thought.

"Quickstep?" he suggested. When he saw her bite her lip to keep from laughing, he realised that wasn't what she had meant. He opened his mouth to say... something, but she cut him off before he could speak.

"Sounds great. Let's show these kids how it's done!" she said with a grin. "Um, can you give me a moment?" Kyrie asked.

"Of course, there's actually something I'd like to do, before I forget," he replied with a brief smile.

He turned around and walked back to the stage, to his music stand. He looked at the hand-written music he'd composed for the newly-weds. He smiled seeing the words he'd scribbled in the top right-hand corner: Waltz, for Mary & John, by Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock picked up the music and folded it into an envelope which he then put onto the stand. He had written 'Dr. and Mrs Watson' on the envelope so it would be clear who the envelope was for.

When he turned around to leave the stage, he noticed Kyrie standing behind him, waiting patiently.

"Done?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, I was just waiting for you. Didn't expect you to go over here as well." She paused, looking at the music stand. " _That_... is yours, right?" she asked.

He briefly furrowed his brows. "Um, yes. Why?"

"I don't want people to run off with this," she said. She moved her hand to her back and removed the glittering belt from her waist. When she did, she seemed to take off half of her dress as well.

Sherlock's mouth dropped open in a small 'oh' when Kyrie revealed a much shorter dress underneath the long faux skirt. The hem ended somewhere mid-thigh in dainty fringes, offering her a lot more freedom of movement while dancing and offering him a much more generous view of her shapely legs and a lot more exposed skin.

He breathed sharply through his nose and he felt as if his throat had been stuffed with sawdust. When he looked at her, only one word popped into his mind. One word that seemed to surround her. **Dinner?** _Dinner?_ Dinner? _**Dinner?**_ It was... hard to ignore the wishes of his baser instincts. God, it still surprised him to no end to find out, yet again, that even he could fall prey to those.

He shook his head. No. Not now. This was neither the time nor the place to even entertain such thoughts. _Home?_ _Yes... Home. Now behave and quiet down!_

She folded the faux-skirt over his music stand, making sure it didn't obscure the envelope from view. Kyrie then turned back at him with a look of expectation in her eyes.

"So, are we going to stand here and wait till the song is over, or...?" she asked him when he didn't move.

He blinked at her. There was a high probability he could start making a tally by how many time she had left him speechless today.

"Shall we dance?" he finally asked and he hopped off the stage, holding out his hand for her. She smiled down at him and took his hand. He circled his free arm around her and lifted her to the ground.

He scanned the room, it was pretty crowded, meaning he would have to pay attention where he would direct them.

He needed but a few moments to notice what couples had the most predictable dance movements.

Sherlock then placed his right-hand on her left shoulder blade and took her right hand in his left. He eased her into the dance with the basic steps with a few easy turns mixed in.

"How is your tango, Mr Holmes," Kyrie asked, her eyes sparkling with a deep violet hue.

"I daresay it's better than yours, Mrs Holmes," he replied softly, "Why?"

"I may have asked the DJ to play a song we can tango to after this," she said with a grin.

He chuckled in amusement and suddenly dipped her to her left, making sure to give her body the proper support. She gasped in delight.

He quickly pulled her back up, twirled around with her a few times before he took her on an energetic journey through the room, finding small gaps in between the guests. They hopped, ran, twirled and quick stepped through the song with a lot of momentum and rotation.

When the music ended, she crashed against his chest and laughed breathlessly. "That was... wild!" she said, still laughing at him. He chuckled at her. He loved the flush on her cheeks and her eyes shining so vibrantly up at him. He traced her lower lip with his thumb, all too aware of the longing, stirring deep within him.

Sherlock looked up when the room suddenly filled with the first seductive notes of 'Santa Maria' by the Gotan Project.

"I think I need to lose my jacket for this one," he muttered, looking down at her.

"Good idea," she whispered a bit breathlessly.

He unbuttoned his jacket, briskly walked up to the stage and shrugged his jacket off of his shoulders. He quickly folded it and put it down and noticed Kyrie was standing on the floor, waiting for him.

The other guests looked up with confused looks. Sherlock smiled slightly. _Probably not the music they were accustomed to_ , he thought wryly as he started his slow advance on Kyrie. At least he wouldn't have to worry so much about the other hopping and skipping guests.

When he was right in front of her, she stepped even closer, her hands sliding over his shoulder and to his waist. He stepped forward, his leg sliding between hers, as she stepped back. And again.

She pushed herself away from him in a sharp turn, but he grabbed her wrist and spun her back. She grabbed him by his elbows and Sherlock moved her through the slow and deliberate steps, keeping her at arms length, energy building up between them.

He spun her around in a quick turn, after which she grabbed his neck and pulled herself close, bringing up her right knee, resting it against his right leg. He could feel her breath hot on his skin. He quickly pushed her away but she spun right back.

He then adjusted his arms in the more formal position and guided her through a few slower movements, his eyes never leaving hers. Until he sharply leaned her body away from him. Her eyes were averted from his when he slowly pulled her back up again.

When he looked down at her, he saw an intense expression on her face, her lips slightly partly. Her eyes were dark, sultry... like crushed velvet. He pulled her to him and started spinning with her across the room in a dizzying speed.

Kyrie suddenly lowered herself, close to the floor, her hands clasped around his arms as she bent one knee and stretched out her other leg. He gently grabbed her by her shoulders and as he slowly pulled her up, her back slid against the length of his frame.

She tilted her head backwards and he noticed tiny beads of sweat forming on her skin. It would be so easy to place his lips in the curve of her neck. Instead, he gave her body short, sharp jerks as if he wanted to spin them both around, in short... staccato... movements.

They continued their seductive dance in which they pushed each other away and reeled each other back in. A game of cat and mouse, much as they had done over the course of five years.

He dipped her, bent her backwards far over his arm and dug his fingers into her waist to get a good grip. Sensing what he was up to, Kyrie grabbed his upper arm as he suddenly lifted her of the ground and whirled around with her.

As the last notes died down, Kyrie had her body pressed up against his, his hand intimately holding her thigh. Slightly panting, they released each other. Kyrie stepped back and wiped at her forehead with her hand.

Sherlock could feel sweat dampening the curls in his neck himself. He smirked at her and she replied with a throaty laugh.

Suddenly the guests who had gathered around them, started to applaud. There were a few wolf whistles as well and Lestrade even gave him a thumbs up. Only Molly had a bit of an odd look on her face... eyes bulging a bit, mouth pulled in a tight 'oh'. It wasn't a good look on her.

"Do you want to use the room here, or go back to London?" Sherlock turned his head towards Kyrie. They were now garnering a bit too much of attention from the guests for his tastes.

He was glad that a more upbeat song persuaded the guests to start dancing again, instead of openly staring at them with wide open eyes.

"What, don't you want to _mingle_?" Kyrie asked him with a teasing glint in her eyes.

"I don't... _mingle_ ," he scoffed.

He turned on his heel to fetch his jacket from the stage, leaving it up to her if she wanted to join him or not. He folded his jacket over his arm and cast her a thoughtful look as he watched her pick up her faux-skirt.

"You can stay here, if you want," Sherlock told her a bit stiffly. "And catch the train back to London, tomorrow."

"What about you?" she asked confused.

"The last train is leaving half past eleven, I can still make it," he told her. _Come with me. Let's have dinner._

"Can't I... just come with you?" she asked, her voice sounding unusually tiny. _YES!_

He straightened himself and cast her a quick glance. "It's John and Mary's wedding, you sure you want to leave early?"

Sherlock could mentally slap himself when he saw the sparkle leaving her eyes.

"Sherlock, do you want me to come with you, or do you want me to stay here?" _Yes... No..._

"You're a grown woman, Kyrie," he said, his voice unintentionally rough. "I'm sure you can make up your own mind." _Come home with me_

He made his way over to the foyer to get his coat.

In the garden, outside the reception room, while the revellers were dancing on, Sherlock put on his coat and turned up the collar. He slowly walked away, just to stop abruptly when he heard lonesome footsteps falling behind him. He didn't need to look to know it was Kyrie. He looked anyway.

She kept her gaze averted from his as she walked beside him, dressed in a beautiful long dress coat that she'd gotten for the occasion. He preferred her burgundy coat but was wise enough not to mention it.


	59. Dinner

**A/N Oh dear, here it is. Sherlock has 'dinner' with Kyrie.**

 **WARNING This chapter is rated M for a reason. It contains sex. Different people have different tastes and I understand for some a heated kiss is more than enough. Before you read on, UNDERSTAND that this chapter involves more (much more) than just a heated kiss. I tried to write this in as 'tasteful' a way as I could because I don't like pornographic smut myself. Though for some who are more sensitive than me, this probably already falls into that category. So, read only at your own discretion. If you don't like this stuff, than please don't read and wait for the next update.**

 **Next update will bring us into the episode of 'His Last Vow'. I'm currently writing the last scene and I'm bawling my eyes out. One of the hardest scenes I had to write. I think even harder than the scene in 'The Fall'.**

 **As I've noticed that Saturdays and Sundays are always very quiet in terms of reading and reviews, I'm thinking about posting my next update on Monday instead of tomorrow. This would also give me a chance to write a bit ahead again and make a start for 'The Abominable Bride'.**

 **Katt96 I hope you are comfortable, dear ;-)**

 **Artemis7448 LOL! Actually... Um no... just read yourself. Not gonna spoil anything :-D**

 **Guest Chocolate Chip Cookies please! I need some comfort food as the scene I'm was writing was quite emotional.**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Not exactly a very early update, but I just wanted to edit some stuff. Make sure this chapter is as good is I can get it. I hope you will like this first 'dinner' between Kyrie and Sherlock.**

 **DreamonAlina I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

 **Kuppcake I would pay through the nose for that. Alas... I guess we will just have to entertain ourselves with fanfiction for stuff like that ;-)**

 **Well... here it is. Enjoy! (or not)**

SSS

The trip back to London had taken about an hour and a half. Kyrie had fallen asleep. She woke up when Sherlock lightly touched her shoulder. "We're here," he said softly. She just nodded at him and got up.

After that it was just a small cab ride to 221B Baker Street. _Home_ , she thought wryly.

She didn't wait for Sherlock. She used her keys and opened the door. He never waited for her either.

 _You're a grown woman, I'm sure you can make up your own mind._ She sighed. For a moment he'd actually fooled her into believing they were making progress. He'd kissed her, right there on the stage! They had danced together... Everything had just seemed to... fall into place.

But no, they were right back at the beginning. He wanted her to stay married to him. Great, it's what she had dreamed of and longed for, for a long time. But then... things had just stopped moving forward.

Sure, kissing, that was pleasurable enough for Mr Holmes as that would allow him to keep control. Everything else... seemed to be far from his mind, off limits even.

She could feel tears stinging her eyes as she stomped up the stairs and quickly made her way to the bedroom to start her evening routine.

A part of her knew she couldn't place all the blame on him. She knew what kind of man Sherlock was and she also knew that he wasn't accustomed to emotions like a normal person. But dammit, she just wanted to know where they stood! Where _he_ stood! Because honestly, she didn't have a clue and he was giving her a whiplash with his mood swings.

She just emerged back from the bathroom and was sitting on the bed to loosen the straps of her shoes when Sherlock entered their bed room. Kyrie ignored his presence and kicked off her shoes.

She cast a wary eye at him when he walked to the wardrobe and first removed his jacket and then proceeded to get rid of his tie and finally his vest. Dressed solely in a shirt and trousers, he now looked like himself again. He was no longer the best man and he no longer looked like a groom.

Kyrie got to her feet and, with numb fingers, removed the glittering belt with the faux-skirt for the second time that evening.

"Why did you come home with me?" Sherlock suddenly asked. "Why didn't you stay longer at the wedding?"

Kyrie blinked her eyes at the question. Was she to assume he'd wanted her to stay there? Then why hadn't he told her so?

"Because you were going home," she said a bit testily while reaching behind her neck to undo the clasp of her necklace. "I couldn't very well take up the room by myself. People would talk."

She expected him to scoff at her comment. She knew Sherlock didn't care if people talked or not. Kyrie gasped lightly when she suddenly felt his hands lightly brush hers away, so he could undo the clasp for her.

"I thought it would be viewed as being considerate," Sherlock told her as he walked up to her night stand and gently laid down her necklace. "I'm not one for mingling, you are. Therefore I left early, but you could have stayed if you wanted.

"And you could have retreated to our room early instead of rushing off to catch the last train."

"Thin walls," he remarked dryly. He walked back to her and distracted her by placing a soft kiss in the curve of her neck.

There was a question forming in her brain somewhere but she couldn't quite grasp it when Sherlock gently nipped at her skin and then kissed the spot.

Her knees went weak when he applied a bit more pressure and let his tongue dart over her skin. She wanted to close her eyes and revel in the sensation, but she knew where it would end... There would come a moment he'd feel uncomfortable with the intimacy and then he'd stop.

After this day, after tonight... the way he'd kissed her, the way he'd danced with her... her emotions were running wild. She wasn't sure if she could handle... this... to have him suddenly stop and expect her to just go to sleep while her body was craving, yearning for more.

"Please don't," she whispered. "Not tonight."

He suddenly stopped and she could practically feel his confusion. "Am I not... doing this right?" he asked.

She chuckled a bit. "You are," she said softly. "But you are only doing it to please me. It's..." She felt tears pricking in her eyes. "It's not the same for you. I don't..." _God, this was embarrassing to say!_ "... I don't arouse you in the way you arouse me."

"And you're absolutely certain about that, are you?" he said, chuckling lightly against her skin, distracting her with another kiss to her neck.

"Well, excuse me for not getting all excited about your opinion of my appeal. You haven't given me much reason for that," she bristled.

"You're my wife," he stated simply.

 _Then make me your wife!_ "I know you're trying, Sherlock," she said softly. "You don't have to do this to be kind."

"Since when have you known me to be kind?" he asked before he buried his face in her neck again, his right hand circling her waist to keep her steady.

"Always," she whispered.

He chuckled.

"Most of the time then."

She wanted to close her eyes. It was too hard to resist, too hard to fight... her eyes drifted closed as she leaned against his chest.

His hands slid over her shoulders and plucked at the short capped sleeves. He quickly slipped his fingers underneath the thin strips of fabric and distracted her with his lips in her neck, kissing, nipping, sucking. His hands started to slide from her shoulders, taking the capped sleeves with them.

Her eyes flew open and she tensed, ready to bolt. "Sherlock?" she asked, her voice unsteady.

"Since there's nothing I can say to make you think otherwise, I guess I'll have to find another way..." he whispered.

He slipped his hand from her shoulder until she felt it covered the top of hers. She could hear him swallow behind her. She waited.

Sherlock intertwined his fingers with hers and brought the palm of her hand to his stomach and then slowly slid lower. Kyrie blinked her eyes when she first felt the smooth fabric of his trousers and then the hard ridge of his arousal underneath.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"Now then..." he whispered against her ear. He released her hand so he could return to the task of slowly sliding the capped sleeves down her shoulders. She drew in a sharp breath when the fabric fell away from her breasts.

She dropped her hands to her side so he could free both of her arms. With a soft swooshing sound, the fabric pooled around her feet.

"Strapless," he said. "Hooks?"

"Front," she whispered.

"Remove it." He flicked his tongue at her earlobe.

With trembling fingers Kyrie undid the small clasp at the front of her bra. Another layer of fabric landed at her feet.

He turned her around in his arms and sought her lips with his. Soon his hands threaded through her hair and he deftly removed the pins from her up do so her hair cascaded down her back. He groaned into her mouth and pulled her closer; her hands clutched at his waist.

As he kissed her deeply, she drew her hands up his chest. The fabric was cool and luxurious under her touch. Through it she could feel the contours of his body. He was still a bit thinner than he'd been two years before, but he looked so much healthier than six months ago. She could feel his muscles ripple under her touch.

Kyrie slowly pulled his shirt from his trousers and nimbly set to work to quickly undo the buttons. She half expected him to stop her at some point, but he didn't.

She held her breath when she slowly slid the fabric from his shoulders, she marvelled at the sight of him. It was a glorious feeling to know that this was a side of him no one had ever seen before. In her haste however, she forgot to undo the buttons of his sleeves.

He quickly remedied that himself. Soon, his shirt joined her dress and bra on the floor. Before she got a chance to explore his body with her hands, Sherlock wrapped his arms around her, lifted her up and carried her over to the bed. He dropped her on it and immediately pushed her backwards. For a moment she was afraid he would crash right on top of her, but he braced himself with his elbows.

When she looked up into his eyes, she gulped. She knew that look and it filled her with trepidation. His body might be aroused... his mind was in full deduction mode. He was looking closely at her every reaction: every gasp, every shiver, every flinch of her skin.

He was studying her. Intensely. Well, she supposed that was as close to him admiring her body as she would ever get. He gazed at her breasts for a few seconds and she knew that was all she saw... Breasts, soft fleshy mounds with nipples. He did not see them as lust objects.

When he lowered his head and sucked a nipple into his mouth, she had similar thoughts, that he was just doing it to see what her reaction would be. When he drew the point in deeper, she stopped thinking about why he was doing this. She forgot to think, and briefly, even forgot to breathe.

The moist heat of his mouth combined with the flicking of his tongue made her want to scream as quick, piercing stabs of desire were shooting rhythmically through her entire body. She could not believe this was actually happening. She grew impatient, she wanted to feel him inside of her as soon as possible... Before he'd change his mind.

Unfortunately, Sherlock seemed to be in no hurry at all. The only proof of his own arousal was the visible bulge in his trousers and the dark look in his hooded eyes. He seemed to delight in her impatience but he could not be swayed to speed things up. Not by her writhing against him, not by her clutching at his arms.

Nope... He watched her intently as he teased her with his mouth and tongue and languidly reached up to cup her other breast with his hand. He seemed to test it for weight and bounce before he started tracing the soft skin. His long fingers stroking the underside then travelled to the peak, already taut by his attentions, and he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger.

Kyrie was forced to gasp for air. Every part of her seemed to be on fire. She hoped he'd never stop but she also hoped he'd soon get on with it already before he'd completely drive her insane!

"I thought you were a virgin?" she asked hesitantly.

"Who says I'm not?"

"No one can be this good on their first try."

"I can," he said, muffling any protest with his lips.

Apparently he was for now done with her breasts. He moved his body so his entire length was beside her on her left, without breaking the contact between there lips. He snaked his right arm underneath her neck and grasped her right shoulder and rolled her towards him. He continued his exploration and study of her body with his left hand.

His lips moved back and forth, his tongue sliding against hers as he let his hand travel down from her breasts, over the sensitive skin of her stomach, until his fingers slipped underneath the fabric of her panties. She gasped against his lips.

She sighed in anticipation and a soft moan escaped her when he gently touched a single finger against her. He pressed on, dipping into the wet warmth of her body. Her reaction was instantaneous and electric. She could feel her inner muscles jolt at this foreign touch. Sherlock stopped for a moment. When she looked up at him, she saw he blinked his eyes, his lips slightly parted, as if he was unsure how to continue.

It was a brief moment. When he looked down at her and stared into her eyes, she trembled seeing the intense look in his. Kyrie gasped in surprise when he slipped a second digit in. She widened her eyes when he moved his fingers inside her and rubbed the palm of his hand against her. For a moment she thought she would perish from desire and a low guttural moan erupted from her throat. It was maddening to find him silently studying her, watching on as he was slowly scorching her to a heap of cinder.

She arched against hist hand and clung to his shoulders as she wrapped her right leg over his hip to give him better access. She didn't care if her nails digging into his flesh were hurting him or not. He did this to her.

Kyrie could feel the tension build up inside of her, her muscles tensing, getting ready for the sweet release. The thrusting movement of his fingers became more ardent as he kissed her in her neck. Her eyes drifted closed as the movement of his fingers and his mouth sucking at a particularly sensitive spot, took her past reason.

"Oh, God!" she whispered on a moan.

"No, my dear, it's just me," he groaned in her ear as he continued to urge her higher and higher.

Every cell was focussed on the pleasure he was bringing her and her body started preparing... her muscles clenched tightly; her breathing came in short gasps. She could actually see the release sneaking up on her. So close, so close!

Sherlock suddenly stopped moving. For a moment, her body hovered near the edge, then gently sank back to earth. Her muscles relaxed, her heart rate slowed down, her breathing slowed. The momentum was lost and Sherlock had thoroughly taken the control from her.

Kyrie blinked open her eyes and found he was still studying her intently.

"You do realise that _that_ was not a good moment to stop?" she asked him.

He smiled down at her. "You seemed pretty close."

"I thought that was the idea?"

"Hmm, not so fast. I'm still playing."

She groaned. Fine, let him have it his way... She willed her body to ease down.

At first she barely felt his tongue flick against her skin. The light touch was more of as whisper than actual contact. His fingers slowly started moving inside of her again.

Kyrie forced herself to remain calm and she tried to ignore her body's impatient and incessant need to rush forward to her climax. She frowned as his movements became more ardent again. It was … difficult... to let him pull her along instead of pushing to the finish.

"One moment..." he whispered and suddenly he pushed himself away. At first she wanted to protest, but the words died in her throat when he stood up to kick off his shoes and remove his socks. He then unbuttoned his trousers and casually stripped them off, along with his briefs.

His body was in stark contrast with his calm and deliberate movements; he was hard and ready. He quickly pulled her panties down her legs and tossed them aside before he joined her in bed again.

"Are you still on...?" he asked her, casting a brief look at the night stand at her side of the bed. She could feel her cheeks flush. When he'd first noticed she was using birth control pills, he'd acted really awkward about it, until she angrily ordered him to google it... and PMS. It was the last time they'd discussed it. Until now.

She nodded quickly. "Yes," she whispered.

Bracing his hands on either side of her, he moved himself above her, hovering over her.

"Look at me," he told her. She blinked up at him, confused.

"Why?" she panted, completely distracted by the fact he was circling his hips against her in a gently grinding rhythm.

"Because I want you to," he said, stilling his movements.

Kyrie swallowed and did as he requested. She slowly raised her eyes to gaze at the man above her. His eyes were dark and smoky, his shoulders and arms taut with the strain of holding back, his breathing fast and laboured. Even now, his mind was still in full control over his body. She wondered what it would take for him to finally relinquish that control.

He pushed in and Kyrie forced herself to keep eye contact with him. It was taking a lot of effort. Her mouth formed a quiet 'oh' when she felt him sliding inside of her.

It had been a long time, her body was tight. She noticed that now even Sherlock was not completely unaffected. He'd asked her to look at him and she did. She saw a look of amazement briefly flash in his eyes. Even he could not prevent a groan escaping from low in his throat.

Their eyes still locked, Kyrie raised her hips and tilted her pelvis, urging him forward until he slid home. Once there, he lowered himself, bracing his weight on his elbows.

She slipped her arms around his back and felt his muscles responding to her touch. Sweat dampened his forehead as he withdrew and then sank back into her again. Slowly, steadily, over and over again, all the while watching her face.

She tried to keep looking at his, she wanted to see the moment when his restraint would break, when he was near his own climax. She discovered she could not concentrate on anything, except the feeling of him inside her as he urged her on.

His face swam in and out of view as her body collected itself for the release they were both reaching for. There was a low, frantic gasp, that could be either hers or his, that made him steadily increase the tempo of his deep, driving thrusts. She drew her knees up and on instinct she wrapped her legs around him.

Feeling the wave beckoning her, pulling at her, Kyrie arched her back and welcomed it. A shivering ecstasy started to course, sending streaks of pleasure curling through her, her skin tightening over her entire body, faster and faster until her entire body convulsed and her world exploded behind closed lids. It made her cry out his name as the sudden release short-circuited every nerve in her body, shocking her into an ecstasy so powerful it made her feel singed.

He gasped in surprise and groaned at the sensation of her inner muscles tightening around him in quick succession. Sherlock was able to drive in to her with just a few more frantic strokes, until his body too shuddered with his own release. He threw back his head and held himself deep inside her, keeping himself perfectly still as he pulsed inside of her until he finally gasped for breath.

He swayed, struggling to keep above her. Kyrie looked up at him and found that at some point he too had closed his eyes. When she touched her hand to his cheek, he blinked them open. He blearily stared at her and she watched him give in.

Kyrie welcomed his weight as he gently laid his body down and tightened his arms around her. He buried his face in the curve of her neck and she gently stroked the curls in his neck as his laboured breathing eventually evened out.

When he finally rolled away from her, he dragged her along with him. Her limbs felt heavy and lazy now that her body was completely sated. With a smile Kyrie rested her head in the crook of his shoulder and allowed herself to drift off, feeling his arm securely around her.

With her last conscious thoughts, she realised he would push her away once he had pulled up all of his guards again, the guards that would only disappear in his slumber, when he would reach for her. For now, she was content to stay just where she was.

SSS

The next day, Sherlock reverted to his usual self. He had woken up early again, pretending to be busy with a case. One look at the rigid set of his shoulders and the dispassionate expression on his face, made Kyrie think twice about bringing up the previous night.

Apparently, he did not want to think about it and he certainly did not seem inclined to talk about it. He was a bit more distant to her than usual, or what had become usual to them after they'd become a real couple.

Kyrie decided he just needed some time to adjust and come to terms with the fact that even he was just human.

It took him a few days before he loosened up again. Though he didn't say a word to her about how he felt or what he was thinking, one evening, behind the closed doors of their bedroom... he reached out for her and pulled her into his arms once more...

Again, the following days he did not refer to it once though his demeanour was less stilted than after that first night. He was also quicker in reaching out for her again.

And then she understood. He had always prided himself in having detached himself from emotions. Taking these steps in a real relationship – making love – though he would probably just think of it in terms of 'having intercourse'... he was afraid it would unravel his persona and that it would stop him from being who he was... Sherlock Holmes. He was just setting to prove to himself that he could have a real relationship, without it destroying his essence.

And so, he made a divide between Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective by day and Sherlock Holmes, tender and stormy lover by night. And Kyrie let him.

In time, Kyrie hoped he would be able to reconcile the two, but for now she realised he needed their relationship to be like this.

Once Sherlock affirmed that she was okay with this... new arrangement... he developed himself into an ardent and enthusiastic student in the art of lovemaking. His curiosity was endless, so was his willingness to try something new.

Though they never discussed their love life, Kyrie found there was no need to. Sherlock always paid close attention to her every response to his touch, cataloguing every sigh, gasp and shiver of pleasure. The moment her responses became lacklustre, he would adept his ministrations to what he knew she liked.

There was also no need to ask him what he liked or didn't like. He liked one thing and that was always what he got. To be in control. He always drove her over the edge first, before he allowed himself to join her and, for a brief moment, relinquish that control.

She loved that man more than life itself and she needed him more than she needed air. But she did not tell him. Neither did he tell her.

Kyrie didn't know if the day would ever come that he would feel comfortable enough with his character, his insecurities and his emotions to be able to hear those words, let alone to say them himself. For the time being, what they now had would have to be enough.


	60. Hallelujah

**A/N Wow, I didn't expect such a positive response. Well, I'm really glad that you guys liked the 'dinner' chapter. It was... challenging to write, I can tell you that. I had to keep several things in mind: his emotional disposition, the fact that (in my story at least) it's his first time and it's been a good long time for Kyrie as well. So, it had to be romantic but not too romantic (considering this is Sherlock). So, yeah... quite a challenge to write.**

 **There will be more scenes like that, but, so far there are just two more. He's not suddenly into sex or anything. And any changes in their relationship will unfold slowly. Even now they have taken this step, it doesn't mean that Sherlock is suddenly a 'new' person.**

 **Katt96 I hope you liked the chapter and that it lived up to your expectations. And I love Kyrie's name. I think I've always wanted to use that name ever since I played Devil May Cry 3. Yes, I'm that much of a nerd!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Thank you, thank you, thank you for your in depth response to the chapter. It's always good to know that readers think I'm on the good track with something. If you ever feel I'm not, that too I would like to know. For me it was important that Sherlock would not suddenly be... all touchy feely as I see in a lot of other stories. You know, each writer creates their own 'version' of Sherlock if you will. And if they want to change him that much, or if they feel it's a natural change for him in their stories, I'm not going to say it's wrong or that they are wrong. This is just my version and interpretation and I'm really glad to know that it feels right for you to read. I understand you would love a brief glimpse in Sherlock's POV but... I hate head hopping. There are certain rules to changing POV's (even though not all author's adhere to those rules, but that aside). But don't worry, there will be other moments from his POV and the entirety of Abominable Bride will be from Sherlock's POV. Maybe with exception of the scenes set in the present. Not sure yet.**

 **GoDrinkPinesol624 Haha I think you are right about that. I believe there are many readers who were waiting for the 'dinner' chapter. I hope you liked it. I also hope you will drop me another review sometime.**

 **EllemichelleP Lol! Your review made me giggle. It was priceless. Guess the chapter left you a bit speechless? Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter. I think you did though :-)**

 **DreamonAlina I'm glad you approved that chapter. Since you were one of the people who didn't like overly smutty material, I was kinda worried it would be too much for you. Apparently I was wrong in that assumption :-) As I already explained, this won't really change their current relationship that much. They just grow closer to each other over time. Especially Sherlock can't pin point the moment when his feelings for Kyrie evolved to 'love'. For Kyrie it's a lot easier. She was already attracted to him very early on in the story and that first kiss pretty much sealed the deal for her. So, basically, she's been waiting for him for a long, long time! Kind of like Molly.**

 **Okay, that's enough rambling from me. Now on with the story. I know, I said I wouldn't update till Monday, I didn't expect people to still read and review plus I made a GREAT head start on Abominable Bride!**

SSS

One day Kyrie walked into the living room, gently dabbing her wet hair with a towel. She saw Sherlock standing in front of the left most window. The moment he turned around to face her, she knew something was up.

She stopped dabbing her hair and just looked at him, wondering how bad it would be.

He smiled wryly at her. "You always did know when something was brewing," he said, taking in the expression on her face.

"What's going on?" Kyrie asked.

He crossed his arms. "We need to break up..." he said.

She blinked at him and found she had trouble breathing. She tried to swallow but the muscles in her throat wouldn't give.

"... and I need you to leave."

She reeled back as if he'd just slapped her in the face, her mouth dropped open.

"... Just for a week or two."

Kyrie released a breath of air. "Mm?" She looked up at him, not understanding what the hell was happening.

He furrowed his brows at her silence until he suddenly seemed to realise how she would have interpreted his words.

"What the...? Not for real!" he said in exasperation.

Kyrie started to shiver. He took one good look at her face and immediately walked up to her.

"Come here," he said softly, while pulling her towards him. "Come here."

"Can you please... not do that again?" she asked, her face buried in his shirt and her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. He was drawing soothing circles with his hands on her back. She closed her eyes, inhaled his scent and allowed herself to relax and enjoy this moment, because...

4, 3, 2, 1...

He released a breath and pulled back, their last bit of physical contact was him holding her arms. He reassuringly rubbed up and down her arms a few times, before he let go and stepped back.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Better," she said, smiling up at him. She quickly wiped at her eyes. "Just, don't... again... okay?"

A small smile tugged at his lips. "I'll keep that in mind, I promise."

"Now, can you _please_ tell me what's going on... The normal way?"

Sherlock gestured his hand at John's chair. He walked towards his own armchair and sat down.

Kyrie turned around to hide her smile. Sometimes he had the tendency to treat her like a client. She was pretty sure it was unintentional and she found it rather amusing.

She cleared her throat and sat down.

"I need to go undercover," he started. "I may have to do some things you don't approve of and you can't be here for a while." He paused for a moment and looked at her intently.

"And I really need you to be with me on this one," he said softly.

Kyrie furrowed her brows. "What do you need me to do?"

He swallowed. "Um... Visit a friend. Janine would be a very good choice..."

Her eyes snapped up at his. "Janine?"

Sherlock nodded his head. "If you were to ask her for a favour, for help really... How far do you think she'd be willing to go?"

"Um, she's a good friend. Loyal. It depends what you need, I guess. Why?"

"I need you to visit her, I need you to stay there for about two weeks. And I want you to get Janine to relay Magnussen's schedule to you, so you can relay it back to me."

"And the break up?" Kyrie asked.

"I need to be able to sell my cover. Won't work if everyone thinks we are... _happily_ married."

Kyrie nearly burst out laughing when she saw the startled look on his face. He was likely afraid she'd pester him with questions... if he really thought they were happily married. She knew he would fluster and splutter and be unable to come up with a coherent reply.

"I'm not going to lie to my friend and say we broke up," she warned him, a smile still tugging at her lips. It would be so easy to tease him.

Sherlock visibly relaxed and nodded at her. "I know. Just hope she can act well. Tell her... it's important."

Kyrie looked up at him. "What will you be doing?" she asked.

He paused for a moment. "Selling a story," he said.

They both got to their feet. Kyrie cast him a curious glance. "So, you need me to... now?"

He nodded. "Yes, that... would be for the best."

Sherlock then pulled her to him, just briefly, to hold her close. He let her go with a brief kiss on her forehead. "Two weeks," he whispered.

SSS

" _Uh-Oh, We're In Trouble. Something's Come Along And It's Burst Our Bubble."_

Kyrie blearily opened her eyes and looked at the time. Fucking hell, really? 6.45 in the morning?

" _Uh-Oh, We're In Trouble. Gotta Get Home Quick March On The Double!"_

She accepted the call. "Hey John," she mumbled sleepily. How was your..."

"Where the _hell_ are you?"

Kyrie blinked, hearing the anger in her friend's voice. "At Janine's... have been for the past... Mm... week and a half. Why?"

"Do you have _any_ idea what he's been up to lately?" Hmm, that sounded rather scathing. Only one 'he' he could be talking about.

She pushed herself half upright. "Undercover, why?"

"Undercover, really? That's what you guys call it? Guess where I just found him, Kyrie?"

"How should I know? He's undercover... doing... stuff."

"In a _drug den_ , Kyrie! That's where! Baked as a cake!"

Kyrie shot right up on the lilo she'd been using.

"He what now?"

"Just... meet us at Bart's. Molly is meeting us there as well, because... Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar."

She puffed out a breath of air. "Yeah, on my way."

Kyrie got herself dressed as quickly as she could in a supple maroon coloured blouse and a grey pencil skirt. She quickly put on her heels and she grabbed her coat and scarf.

"Janine!" she yelled, "I have to go! I'll be back later!"

She wasn't sure if Janine had actually heard her. She was kind of a deep sleeper. At the moment she needed to get to Bart's though, she had no time to worry about Janine's sensitivities.

SSS

It didn't take long for Kyrie to reach her destination and soon she marched through the hallways of Bart's.

She pushed open the doors to Molly's lab and came to an abrupt stop at the sight that greeted her.

First shock and surprise... Mary was there! Currently busy wrapping a bandage around the arm of a young man who looked... well... baked as a cake. There was an even younger guy, a boy actually, sitting close to them who didn't look much better.

John was standing near Molly, watching her work with folded arms and a cross look on his face.

And then there was shock and surprise number two. Sherlock. Her mouth dropped open at the sight of him. He was leaning against the central bench where Molly was, most likely, running rests on Sherlock's urine sample and he looked nothing like the elegant man she'd left behind.

He looked like death warmed over. His hair was flat and greasy, as if it hadn't had a proper wash since she last saw him. He looked over at her with bloodshot, deep sunken eyes. He looked even paler than usual and his face was unshaven and grimy.

And what the hell was he even wearing? She'd never seen him in anything less formal than his pj's. Now he was wearing shapeless black t-shirt, a shapeless hooded jacket, baggy sweatpants and... sneakers.

She carefully walked up to him. He had a sulking look on his face and kept his eyes averted from hers.

"Mary," she said softly, "Do you mind if I don't inquire after your honeymoon right now? I'd rather to that later than now.

"Not at all," Mary said pleasantly.

Kyrie looked up at the loud snaps of gloves. Molly had a scowl on her face.

"Well?" John asked. "Is he clean?"

Molly threw her gloves on the bench.

"Clean?" she echoed him and walked over to face Sherlock, standing almost right next to Kyrie.

She glared at Sherlock for a brief moment and then she struck him hard across the face with her right hand. It made everyone in the room look up at her. Kyrie blinked at the suddenness of the motion while Sherlock had a mildly shocked expression on his face.

Kyrie quickly recomposed herself and noticed the look on Molly's face. The moment Molly moved her right hand back again for another slap, Kyrie's own hand shot out and she grabbed the other woman's wrist, slightly twisting it into a painful wrist lock.

Molly gasped in pain and surprise.

Kyrie put a bit more pressure on the wrist.

"I'm grateful you helped my husband – _stage_ his own death – to keep him from _actual_ death," she said in a calm but glacial tone. "But don't think that gratitude will count for _anything_ if you dare to hit him again."

The lab was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. Molly quickly nodded her head. Kyrie released her grip and Molly quickly pulled her hand back to cradle her wrist as she cast a fearful look in Kyrie's direction.

Kyrie then turned to face Sherlock. She regarded him briefly as he smiled up at her. She then forcefully slapped him across his left cheek with the palm of her right hand and instantly slapped him across his right cheek with the back of that same hand. He blinked his eyes a few times and grimaced.

"You lied to me," she hissed at him.

"I did nothing of the sort!" he protested while cradling his face. "Couldn't you have let Molly do the slapping? You hit way harder!" he whined. "Though I'm fairly grateful your ring is on your other hand."

He turned to look at Molly. "Sorry your engagement's over, by the way. Same sentiment though, bit glad for the lack of a ring."

"Stop it," Molly hissed at him. "Just stop it."

John suddenly stormed over to them. His face looked thunderous but his voice was treacherously calm. "If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called, you could have talked to me."

" _Please_ do relax," Sherlock said. "This is all for a case. And I didn't lie to you." He looked at Kyrie. "I did warn you I'd have to do stuff you wouldn't like."

"Next time be more precise," she advised him.

"Really, this was all for a case?" John asked incredulously. "Tell me, Sherlock, what kind of case would need you doing this?"

"I might as well ask you why you've started cycling to work," Sherlock shot back.

John shook his head. "No. We're not playing this game," he said, while turning his back on Sherlock and walking away across the lab.

"Quite recently, I'd say. You're very determined about it."

John turned around to face him again. "Not interested."

" _I_ am."

Kyrie looked up at the young man who was getting his arm treated by Mary.

"Ow!" he said.

"Oh, sorry." Mary apologised. "You moved. But it _is_ just a sprain."

"Yeah. Somebody 'it me," he replied.

Mary looked up from what she was doing. "Huh?"

The young man turned his head to look at John.

"Eh, just some guy."

John cleared his throat. "Yeah, probably just an addict in need of a fix."

Kyrie saw how Sherlock gave John a pointed look. "Yes. I think, in a way, it was."

John quickly averted his eyes.

"Is it his shirt?" the young addict suddenly asked.

Sherlock looked round at him. "I'm sorry?"

"Well, it's the creases, innit?" he said, looking at John.

Sherlock followed his gaze.

"The two creases down the front. It's been recently folded but it's not new."

Kyrie rolled her eyes but Sherlock smiled a bit.

"Must have dressed in a hurry this morning, so _all_ your shirts must be kept like that."

Kyrie looked at John. It was one thing to have become accustomed to Sherlock's accurate eye for detail... but a junkie?

"But why?" The young addict wondered aloud. "Maybe 'cause you cycle to work every morning, shower when you get there an' then dress in the clothes you brought with you."

Sherlock kept looking at him and was clearly impressed.

"You keep your shirts folded ready to pack."

"Not bad."

"An' I further deduce..."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up briefly as he and John exchanged a quick look. Kyrie rolled her eyes. Even Mary looked up at him with a surprised look on her face.

"... you've only started recently, because you've got a bit of chafing."

John looked down his body with a confused look on his face.

"No," Sherlock countered. "He's _always_ walked like that. Remind me – what's your name again?"

"They call me The Wig," the addict replied, trying to give Sherlock an intimidating look.

"No they don't," Sherlock immediately said.

"Well, they-they call me Wiggy," he said, almost sounding hopeful.

"Nope," Sherlock said, popping the P.

Kyrie and Mary looked at each other, both their smiles growing wider at each of the young man's attempts.

"Bill. Bill Wiggins," he finally said reluctantly.

"Nice observational skills, _Billy_."

"Really, Sherlock?" Kyrie turned to look at him.

"What?" he said confused.

"Billy? You're calling him like skull Billy in our living room? Don't you think that's just a bit morbid?"

"It's just a name! His name is Bill! So... Billy!" he said, defending himself.

At that moment Sherlock's phone chimed a text alert. He took out the phone and checked the message.

"Ah! _Finally,"_ he whispered excitedly.

" _Finally_ what?" Molly still seemed a bit cross at him.

"Good news?" Billy asked.

"Oh, excellent news. The best," Sherlock said, his eyes sparkling in excitement. "There's every chance that my drug habit might hit the newspapers. The game is on."

He walked towards the doors and briefly turned around at them. "Excuse me for a second," he said before he disappeared through the doors.

Kyrie stared at the now closed door, wondering just how worried she should be now Sherlock'd had a taste of drugs again.

"It was great by the way," Mary suddenly said.

Kyrie turned her head to face her friend, giving her a distracted, puzzled look. Mary looked over at her with a broad smile on her face. "Our honeymoon!" _Don't worry, we'll get him right again,_ her eyes seemed to say.

"Cape Town, South Africa, right?" Kyrie asked. _I can't help but worry about him._

Mary grinned at her. "Yep. I got a tan, went on a shopping spree in the big city. The landscapes were amazing! Sadly, no wine tasting for me but John had a blast. We went on a few safaris of course. Oh, and we saw the colony of warm-weather penguins at Boulder Beach!" _I know. That's why I'm blabbing about my honeymoon._

John gave them a look. He didn't seem happy with the fact they were discussing their honeymoon while he probably still wanted to clobber Sherlock on the head.

"We need to get together soon," Kyrie suggested. She smiled at the 'secret' conversation she imagined having with her friend. "Catch up."

Mary looked round at her and looked her up and down. She then gave Kyrie a wicked grin. "Oh, I think we definitely need to 'catch up'."

Kyrie snorted with laughter. Mary briefly glanced at Molly. "Yeah, I can't wait that long," Mary said, failing to keep a straight face. "Just tell me one thing... On the scale of one to ten. How...? Hmm?"

"Oh, my God! Mary!" Kyrie cried out.

"Well?" Mary insisted.

Kyrie grinned at her. "Eleven," she said.

Mary's mouth dropped wide open. "No!" she said in a low voice.

"What are you guys talking about?" John asked them, looking at them with suspicion.

"Mm?" Mary hummed.

"Come on, something's going on between you two. What is it?"

Molly was sending both of them curious glances. Kyrie couldn't believe Mary would ask her _that_ question, right here and right now.

"Movie," Kyrie managed to say. "I told Mary, before you guys left... I was, um... going to see a movie. Mary just..."

"Yeah, definitely," Mary said. "Movie. I wanted to know if it was... any good. Apparently... it... was?"

"Very good," Kyrie agreed. "Great music too."

"Okay, what movie was that then?" John asked, looking at his wife.

Kyrie smiled as an idea hit her. So, Mary wanted to embarrass her? Well... two could play that game.

"Watchmen," she replied instantly, making John look back at her. Kyrie took out her phone and did a quick search on Youtube. She grinned when she found the clip she was looking for and she sent it to her friend. It was the clip of Nite Owl and Silk Spectre II, set to the music of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah.

"That should give you the general gist of it," she said with a wink.

Mary arched a brow at Kyrie and took out her own phone to see what Kyrie had sent her. Soon the musical notes of 'Hallelujah' filled the lab as Mary watched the clip with interest.

Kyrie clasped her hand in front of her mouth to keep from laughing when she saw Mary's eyes nearly pop from their sockets. "Fuck me!" she whispered in surprise.

John shared a brief look with Molly. "I- I have no idea what's going on here," he said. "Mary, can you take they boys home?" John asked her. He was wise to ignore his wife's beet-red cheeks. "Kyrie and I will make sure that Sherlock gets home safely."

"U-huh," was all she said, her eyes still glued to the screen of her phone. "Who would have thought?" Mary whispered to herself before giving Kyrie a bit of a shocked look.

Kyrie just smirked at her. She felt rather proud of herself.


	61. Bath Time

**A/N What can I say... Sherlock is addicted to drugs (sort of) and I'm addicted to reviews. Hopefully there's still people around to read and review this :-)**

 **SplittingImage4 Thank you! For addressing that little bit! I knew that Kyrie would want to give wicked Mary a taste of her own medicine so I had to come up with a hot love scene, that was still romantic and kind of resembled the scene that I wrote. I found this and I am so glad that you liked it!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 The drug use never really bothered me. I guess because it's so in character for the original Sherlock Holmes. I do remember I was utterly shocked when I first saw that old tv show episode where Sherlock was using opiates... I think? In some kind of... place... It is such a vulnerable side to explore because it's his biggest vice. And, without giving too much away, you have to remember that, unlike Molly, Kyrie actually loves her best friend. That's all I'm going to say about that. Thank you again for your lovely in depth review! I love reading those!**

 **DreamonAlina Aw thank you! I actually added the banter bit just today. It wasn't even in the story. But, as I created the chapter and read it through... it just kinda happened. I'm glad you liked it. I LOVED writing that moment where Kyrie actually threatens Molly with bodily harm if she dares to slap Sherlock again, and then she proceeds to slap him herself. This was a very emotional episode to write, so many great moments, so much drama and heartbreak. It was also the hardest episode to write and it took me quite some time to finish it!**

 **Thewickedprinces I missed you! Sadly, I can't read why you were away. Vacation? Away? Busy? Sick? Anyway, I'm glad you are back! Thank you for an amazing review. It always makes me smile when I read people think I was able to capture Sherlock's reactions, emotions, inner thought processes well. And of course I love it when I read that people love my OC. She's pretty special to me. But then again, they all are. I only start writing when a character develops in my head that is so vivid, I just have to write it out of my system. That's why I have so little stories because it's not often I can see them so clearly. And that's why most of the time the chapters just write themselves. I don't have to wonder what direction to take or how to 'fit her in' next. For me she's just there and she makes her path known herself.**

 **Katt96 He's Sherlock. He can be a bloody idiot!**

 **Okay, um... yeah... I hope you enjoy this chapter -looks nervously-**

SSS

Shortly after, Kyrie, John and Sherlock ware seated at the back of a taxi. Kyrie was sitting between them and she scrunched up her nose at the smell that wafted up at her. That shit should go straight into an incinerator. No way was she even going to try and wash that out.

"You've heard of Charles Augustus Magnussen, of course," Sherlock said.

"Yeah. Owns some newspapers – ones I don't read," John said before he turned to look at her. "Didn't you used to work for him? He replaced you right? After you... you know..."

Kyrie just nodded her head.

Sherlock frowned and looked round the cab.

"Hang on – weren't there other people?" he suddenly asked.

"Mary's taking the boys home; Kyrie and I are taking _you_. We did discuss it."

Sherlock looked upwards. "People were talking, none of them me," he said as if I was trying to recall the events. "I must have filtered."

"Yeah, we noticed," John said.

"I have to filter out a lot of witless babble. I've got Mrs Hudson on semi-permanent mute."

"So you told us," Kyrie said dryly.

"I did? When?" he asked, a confused look on his face.

"When you told me you muted me when I _tried_ to teach you something about morals and ethics."

He looked thoughtfully. "Yes, that _would_ make me mute you," he agreed.

Kyrie rolled her eyes.

The taxi pulled up outside of their home. The moment Sherlock spotted the closed front door, he heaved an exasperated sigh. "What is my brother doing here?"

He instantly got out and headed for the front door.

"So I'll just pay, then, shall I?" John called after him.

"Don't worry, I got it," Kyrie muttered as she slipped a few bills at the driver.

They got out and caught Sherlock glaring at the door knocker. "He's straightened the knocker," he bristled while pointing and it. "He always corrects it. He's OCD. Doesn't even know he's doing it."

He deliberately pushed the door knocker to one side, before he opened the door.

"Why'd you do that?" John asked him.

"Do what?"

"Nothing."

Kyrie smiled and shook her head lightly. She closed the door behind them and followed the bows though the inner door. She nearly bumped against John when they suddenly stopped. She peeked around him and saw Sherlock giving his brother a murderous look.

"Well, then, Sherlock. Back on the sauce?" Mycroft asked, his voice blistering.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock growled.

" _I_ phoned him," John said.

"Though I would have expected the call to come from my dear sister-in-law. Ah, the siren call of old habits. How very like Uncle Rudy. Though, in many ways, cross-dressing would have been a wiser path for you."

Sherlock leaned against the wall with his arms folded. " _You_ phoned him," he said to John, without actually looking at him.

"' _Course_ I bloody phoned him."

"' _Course_ he bloody did," Mycroft scolded him. "Now, save me a little time. Where should we be looking?"

" _We_?" Sherlock repeated him.

"Mr Holmes?"

Kyrie cringed at the voice that called down from up in the living room. Anderson...

"For God's sake!" Sherlock exploded and he stormed up the stairs. Mycroft barely managed to slide out of his way to let him pass.

The three of them exchanged a meaningful look before Kyrie sighed and followed Sherlock upstairs.

She found him standing in the kitchen, glaring at Anderson who was there with a female colleague.

"Anderson!" he hissed annoyed.

Anderson immediately raised his gloved hands in an apologetic manner. When it came to Sherlock, he certainly had changed his tune. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's for your own good."

Sherlock tossed down his keys with an annoyed look on his face.

"Oh, that's him, isn't it?" Anderson's female colleague asked. "He's said to be taller." She watched him storm towards his armchair, which, at the moment was occupied by another member of the 'search team'. The man at least had the common sense to scramble out of the chair and scurry away. Sherlock flipped up the hood over his head and flopped down into his chair, sideways.

Kyrie looked around her and her mouth dropped open at the state of things. Honestly! She'd not even been gone for the full two weeks! It would take FOREVER to make the place habitable again! She groaned in disgust.

Mycroft walked into the kitchen and went to stand next to her, looking towards Sherlock. "Some members of your little fan-club. Do be polite," he said with a tight smile. "They're entirely trustworthy, and even willing to search through the toxic waste dump that you are pleased to call a flat."

"It's not usually like _this_ ," Kyrie grumbled.

"I'm sure it's not, sister dear, but it is _now,"_ Mycroft drawled.

Sherlock glared at his brother from his curled up position in the chair. He then rested his head on one of the arms and closed his eyes.

"You're a celebrity these days, Sherlock. You can't afford a drug habit," Mycroft admonished him.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him, an annoyed expression on his face. "I do not _have_ a drug habit," he groused.

Mycroft turned to look at Anderson. "What have you found so far? Clearly nothing."

"There's nothing _to_ find," Sherlock said irritably.

Mycroft turned toward the hallway behind the kitchen and glanced at their bedroom. "Your bedroom door is shut, Kyrie has been staying with her friend Janine and you haven't been home all night," he said as he started to walk to their bedroom.

"So, why would a man who has never knowingly closed the door without the direct orders of his mother bother to do so on this occasion?"

Kyrie bit her lip. It was her bedroom as well and she didn't particularly like the idea of strangers pawing through her things... she didn't know if she should voice her objections.

Sherlock raised his head the moment Mycroft had started walking into that direction. He flipped back his hood when Mycroft reached the door and put his hand on the door knob.

Sherlock immediately hurled himself up into a sitting position.

"Okay, _stop_! Just stop," Sherlock cried out.

Mycroft looked back at his brother. He had the knob turned, but did not push open the door.

"Point made," Sherlock conceded.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock." John cursed as he flopped down in his armchair.

Mycroft released the door knob and slowly made his way back along the all.

"Have to phone our parents, of course, in Oklahoma."

Sherlock lowered his head and closed his eyes.

"Won't be the first time that your substance abuse has wreaked havoc with their line-dancing." Mycroft continued.

With a deep sigh, Sherlock hoisted himself to his feet and walked over to his brother.

"This is not what you think. This is for a case," he said, sounding tired.

Kyrie looked at him, as she leaned against John's chair.

"What case could possibly justify this?" Mycroft asked.

"Magnussen," Sherlock immediately replied.

The slight smile faded from Mycroft's lips.

"Charles Augustus Magnussen," Sherlock clarified.

Mycroft drew in a breath and turned to Anderson and his female co-worker. "That name you think you may have just heard, you were mistaken."

Kyrie shivered at Mycroft's tone.

"If you ever mention hearing that name in this room, in this context, I guarantee you – on behalf of the British security services – that materials will be found on your computer hard drives resulting in your immediate incarceration. Don't reply, just look frightened and scuttle."

Anderson immediately ushered his colleague out of the kitchen and quickly stumbled behind her, following her onto the landing and swiftly closing the door behind him.

"I hope I won't have to threaten you as well," Mycroft said, turning to look at John.

John furrowed his brows in a puzzled look. "Well, I think we'd both find _that_ embarrassing," he replied dryly, making Kyrie chuckle. Sherlock snorted with laughter and quickly looked away.

"Magnussen is not your business," Mycroft told his brother in a stern voice.

"Oh, so it's all right for you to plant Kyrie in his office, but it's not all right for me to accept a case about him?"

"She needed an occupation while you played _dead_. Her position there was useful to me."

"Until he learned of my _resurrection_. Did she stop being useful to _him_ then? Because he couldn't replace her fast enough when she was recovering in the hospital. You know how we both consider _coincidence_."

Kyrie and John both looked from one brother to the other.

"You may consider him under my protection."

"I consider you under his thumb. That's why you wanted Kyrie there."

"If you go against Magnussen, then you will find yourself going against _me_ ," Mycroft said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "Okay. I'll let you know if I notice," he said nonchalantly. He walked around Mycroft and sauntered towards the kitchen door.

"Er, what was I going to say? Oh, yeah..." Sherlock opened the door. "Bye-bye."

He pointed at the way out, just for good measure. Mycroft walked past him, but before walking out, he turned to face his younger brother with a straight face.

"Unwise, brother mine," he said with a bit of a sting to his voice.

Sherlock's hand shot out and he seized Mycroft's left arm, just below the elbow. He then twisted up his wrist behind his back and slammed his brother face-first against the wall beside the kitchen door. Mycroft was barely able to brace himself and he groaned in pain.

Kyrie gasped in surprise as she'd never seen Sherlock this aggressive before. He was breathing rapidly and his voice was absolutely murderous.

"Brother mine," Sherlock warned his brother. He twisted the wrist even further so the delicate bones audibly cracked. "Don't appal me when I'm _high_ ," he said through gritted teeth.

John quickly walked over to Mycroft's side and kept an anxious eye on Sherlock's face. "Mycroft," he said softly, but in a tone that brooked no argument, "Don't say another word. Just go. He could snap you in two, and right now I am slightly worried that he might."

Sherlock gave Mycroft a last shove before he released his tight grip on his brother's wrist. He turned and walked away.

Kyrie shook her head to get rid of the shock and quickly fetched My's umbrella. Mycroft turned towards his younger brother, cradling his left arm.

"My, I think it's better if you just go right now," Kyrie told him softly. "Here," she said and she offered him his umbrella. She pecked his cheek. "We'll talk later." He nodded stiffly and walked away with one last glare in Sherlock's direction.

Kyrie turned around and walked up to Sherlock. "Was that really necessary?" she scolded him.

"No," he said nonchalantly, "But it felt good."

She rolled her eyes at him, for the umpteenth time.

"Er, Magnussen?" John asked as he appeared from the kitchen.

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked distractedly.

"About eight."

He sniffed deeply and puffed out a breath in disgust.

"I'm meeting him in three hours. I need a bath."

"Glad you still have your wits about enough to notice that," Kyrie said.

"Don't you start," he muttered as he past her.

"It's for a case, you said?" John asked him.

"Yep," Sherlock replied as he walked through the kitchen towards the hallway.

"What sort of case?"

"Too big and dangerous for any sane individual to get involved in."

"You trying to put me off?"

"God, no," Sherlock said as he reached their bathroom. "Trying to recruit you." He gave John a brief smile before he disappeared inside and shut the door behind him.

"And stay out of our bedroom," he warned from behind the closed door.

Soon after they heard water running. Against Sherlock's warning, Kyrie noticed John venturing towards the door of their bedroom.

Kyrie harrumphed, making John stop and turn around. "My bedroom too, John. Whatever Sherlock is hiding in there is for you to question and for me to find out. Unless you want me to ask Mary about every filthy detail about your honeymoon."

John stopped dead in his tracks and immediately turned around. "Right," he said.

Kyrie smiled and patted his chest. "I'll go and check in on him," she said. "... make sure he doesn't forget to use the cold water tap."

John chuckled and walked back to the living room.

Kyrie opened the door to their bedroom and sighed in annoyance. There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, the bedroom looked barely used. Sherlock had just been pulling Mycroft's leg.

She quickly laid out fresh garments for him and joined him in the bathroom. He was reclined in the bath, just relaxing in the water, without actually attempting to wash himself.

"For the love of..." Kyrie muttered.

Sherlock lazily opened one eye at her and gave her a half-smile.

"Still baked then?" she asked him.

"Straight-up buttered," he replied with a grin.

She shook her head and unbuttoned the sleeves of her blouse before she rolled them up. She then squirted some shampoo in her hands, lathered it up and started to massage it into Sherlock's hair and scalp.

He closed his eyes and made a few approving noises. When Kyrie was confidant enough his hair had gotten a proper wash, she picked up the shower head to carefully rinse out the shampoo and the accumulated grime.

Then she picked up a wash cloth and forced him to sit upright. Sherlock groaned in protest but quickly stopped when she vigorously started scrubbing his back, shoulders and arms.

"I should get high more often," he mumbled softly.

"No, you really shouldn't," she countered.

"I tend to disagree. This is quite an experience."

"You don't have to be high for that," she scolded him lightly, "You only have to ask."

He snorted with laugher. "You and I both know I would never do that."

She smiled at him. "True," she agreed. "Why did you make such a scene about the bedroom?" Kyrie asked curiously.

"Because Mycroft has no business there," Sherlock answered darkly. "It's not just _my_ bedroom, it's yours as well. His suspicions about my drug use do not warrant him to go through your things. I figured you wouldn't be too thrilled about the prospect."

"Hmm, you figured correctly."

When he was good and properly washed, Kyrie flung the wash cloth into the bath. "There, all done."

Sherlock stood up in the bathtub, water cascading down his body as he rose up. He quickly gave his body a last rinse. "I tend to disagree," he said softly as he stepped out of the tub.

When he turned around to face her, Kyrie's eyes went wide and her mouth ran dry. She held out her hand in a half-hearted attempt to dissuade him. He was with her in a heartbeat, pulling her down to the floor with him. He grinned at her, his pupils fully dilated. She wasn't sure if it was still the drugs, arousal, or both.

"What are you doing, you idiot?" she hissed at him.

"Still blitzed... and sex while high is reported to be quite the extraordinary thing. I want to test that out."

"We can't! John is right outside in the living room!" Kyrie objected.

He looked down at her. "I know," he said casually, while placing his hand over her mouth. "That's why you can't make a sound." He leaned in and whispered near her ear. "Sorry for this, it's just that I've gotten quite good at making you... _sing_."

Kyrie rolled her eyes. Of course he'd consider it a personal challenge to get better... at that! She shivered against him and swallowed hard when he started hiking up her skirt.

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate your tendency to wear skirts at the moment," he whispered hoarsely.

Kyrie's heart rate went through the roof. She wasn't sure if he would regret this when he was sober again. She had concerned herself with his sensitivities and stopped him on two occasions... once in Dartmoor and once during stag night. She didn't want to stop him now. There was only so much temptation she could resist.

He simply pried her panties to the side and checked, possibly to see how much 'work' she would need. He groaned when he found his answer. "Oh, you naughty girl," he whispered, right before he drove himself inside of her.

Thank goodness he made sure to keep his hand clamped securely over her mouth, or the moan that got smothered in her throat would have alerted even Mrs Hudson downstairs.

Kyrie clutched at his hips and brought up her knees. His free hand was digging in the flesh of her thigh to hold her steady as he plunged himself deep inside of her, again and again.

She studied his features intently because she realised she would not get this opportunity again... to actually see his face when he would relinquish control.

This time only one need drove him, the need to satisfy his body and he cared for nothing else. It was the most erotic thing she'd ever seen.

Unfortunately, he noticed what she was up to and he flashed her a wicked grin.

"Sorry, my dear, not this time," he whispered and he moved his free hand from her thigh to between their bodies, to caress her at that tiny spot at the apex of her thighs.

She glared at him for this devious trick but it didn't take long at all for her to close her eyes and to see stars behind her lids. A few more deliberate thrusts shoved her over the edge and the force of her climax threatened to rip her apart.

He chuckled softly in elation, taking in the expression on her face, right before his own face suddenly went taut. Kyrie bolted upright and quickly clamped her own hand over his mouth, suppressing the groan that ripped from his throat. He nodded briefly as he jerkily rode out his own climax, before he crashed on top of her.

It took a few long moments before both of their wildly hammering hearts slowed down to a more regular pace and their breathing evened out.

Suddenly they both erupted in laughter.

"Oh, my God!" Kyrie sniggered as she tried to keep her voice down. "We just had..."

"I know," he replied and he snorted with laughter.

"I can't show myself like this, Sherlock!" she said with a horrified look. "And if I change into something else, he'll know what we've been doing!"

"Oh, but that's easily remedied," he said with a chuckle as he pushed himself away from her.

Kyrie gave him a look. "How?"

He gave her a devious look before he picked her up and dragged her into the tub with him. She shrieked in surprise.

"You can blame it on me!"


	62. The Shark and the Hawk

**A/N And we finally get to meet Magnussen in person! Oh... we are getting close, aren't we... Sherlock will get shot and yes, Kyrie will find out that it was Mary, her best friend, who shot her husband. How will that play out? Well, for now we first have to deal with Magnussen's visit to 221 B Bakerstreet! Thank you all, for taking the time to leave me your reviews. What can I say? I'm a review whore and I rush home after work to crank out the next chapter for you!**

 **Lovesagoodstory I tried to give a little glimpse about Sherlock's thoughts about his new level of intimacy with his wife. Turns out, he doesn't really dwell on that a lot. So, he's probably more an 'in the moment' kind of guy. These thoughts were the only ones I could get out of him. I'm glad you like the bath scene. Apparently I have a thing with shower and bath room sex! Sherlock was rather OOC at the end of the chapter, but, he was still high and less in control of his emotions so, I thought it worked rather well. Thank you again, for leaving me a great review!**

 **Artemis7448 Sherlock will always be a bit of a jerk. It's unintentional though, he doesn't realise he's doing it. Not always anyway!**

 **EllemichelleP Hehe, I hope you liked the extra (hot) chapter!**

 **DreamonAlina LOL Yeah it was pretty hot writing that scene as well. Thanks for you review. I loved that last moment too when Sherlock pulled her into the tub with him. It's showing a much more carefree side of him that we don't always get to see.**

 **Judygrasham I know what you mean. I kind of have that ability. With me however it's called ADD. I can't concentrate during crowded birthday parties and pretty much filter _everything_ out while my head is way up in the clouds! I'm glad you approve of the bath room scene. Comments like these are very useful for me to know when I'm still on the right track or when I need to tone it down a bit. I was slightly worried I'd get comments about the scene being... too hot? And um... I'm way ahead of you there, girl! -wink- **

**thewickedprincess Aww! I'm glad you feel better then! And that goes for both high and drunk Sherlock. He starts to lose his reservations and the 'me' comes out that he could have been had it not been for his past. At the end of my story, that 'me' will show up more around Kyrie (and without the need for drugs or booze!). Basically, Mycroft is always tracking Kyrie and her being Magnussen's PA would always keep him informed of where he was travelling. He never really told me why he wanted to know that. MI6 business probably :-)**

 **Okay... that's it for the reviews. Keep 'em coming btw! And... enjoy this chapter!**

SSS

Sherlock emerged from the kitchen. He had dressed himself in the clothes that Kyrie had laid out for him, consisting of a pair of black trousers, combined with a white shirt and he was currently busy putting on his matching worsted wool jacket.

John was sitting on the edge of the coffee table and looked at Sherlock with a bemused smile on his face.

Sherlock strode to his armchair and cast his friend a casual glance. "So... It's just a guess but you've probably got some questions."

"Yyyyeah, one or two, pretty much."

"Naturally," Sherlock said, casting his friend an easy smile as he adjusted and straightened his jacket.

He turned and looked towards the kitchen. He could just look into the hallway where he spotted Kyrie, now dressed in a grape cashmere draped pleat dress, walk into their bedroom. He smiled as he seated himself in his armchair and casually crossed his legs.

"So, she really is your _wife_ now?" John asked him.

"Yes, she is," Sherlock confirmed, briefly glancing at the bedroom before turning back to John. Time to get down to business.

"Now, Magnussen. Magnussen is like a shark, it's the only way I can describe him," Sherlock told him in a low voice. "Have you ever been to the shark tank at the London Aquarium, John – stood up close to the glass?"

Sherlock raised his hand and imitated a tranquil floating motion. "Those floating flat faces, those dead eyes..."

He breathed in sharply. "That's what he is. I've dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. None of them can turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen." He spoke that name in a measured, deliberate tone of voice.

John was just staring at him with a blank look on his face. Sherlock frowned a bit.

"Yes, she is," John suddenly repeated.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asked confused.

"She's really your wife now?"

"What? Yes! Yes, I've decided to evolve things with Kyrie. I thought that was fairly evident. This shouldn't come as too much of a shock for you, considering what... we discussed... at your wedding."

"Yes. Well... yes," John replied a bit awkwardly and he cleared his voice rather loudly. "But you were just exploring the possibilities at that time. Kyrie's words remember? You wanted to see how things would develop?"

Sherlock looked at him. "Obviously, things have developed."

"I see. So, you, you, you... really _are_ in a relationship now?"

"Yes, I am. Again, we already established this at your wedding."

"Yeah, I know. But that was a kiss and possibilities. You're now acting as if you're really..."

"... together?"

"That. Care to elaborate?"

Sherlock drew in a long breath and puffed out his cheeks as he released his breath. "Not really, but if you must insist. We are in a good place right now and it's um..." _Hmm, how could he put this delicately so John would stop his infernal prying?_ "It's very affirming," he said with a smile.

John pointed at him and gave him a look. "You got that from a book."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. " _Everyone_ got that from a book."

Kyrie came walking into the room and John looked round to smile up at her. Sherlock allowed himself just a brief smile and a fleeting moment of admiring the way she looked.

"I trust you two managed to talk things through?" she asked, casually sitting down on the arm of his chair, her posture straight and regal looking.

Sherlock lightly moved his arm around her. He didn't pull her close and he was knew he could trust her to not sidle up to him in a big mushy display of affection.

Kyrie looked down at him. "No more sneaking into drug dens pretending you're undercover."

"I _was_..." He stopped talking when he noticed the look she was giving him. _Okay, maybe best to not argue with her on that one_. "Fine," he conceded.

"So, now that you and Mary are back from your honeymoon, maybe you two could come over for dinner real soon?"

Kyrie cast him a curious glance. He knew she was trying to sense if he was okay with the suggestion. He smiled at her. "Yeah," he said, agreeing with her.

She turned to look back at John. "I promise to have this place relatively clean and tidy by then, can't have your pregnant wife coming over to this scuzz-dump!"

"That would be great, actually," John said with an affectionate grin. "Especially the making sure this place won't be a safety hazard much longer."

She chuckled at that.

"Oh, I'd better dash or Janine will have left her apartment. I don't have a key and I would like to get my things back," Kyrie said as she got up.

"Don't forget," she said, looking at John. "Dinner. Soon!"

"I won't!"

Sherlock got up as well and escorted her to the living room door. Once there, he opened the door for her.

"Can you tell her... Depending how the meeting goes, it might be tonight?" he asked her quietly. He noticed how her face turned at bit pale, but she nodded anyway.

"Hey, let's have lunch, okay?" he said softly. "Just... get your things and meet me at... Angelo's? Bit hard to prepare something here now," he said with a wry smile.

"Janine won't be in any danger, right?" Kyrie asked softly.

"Not if she followed my instructions."

Kyrie nodded at him.

Sherlock leaned in to place a chaste kiss on her forehead, but he changed his mind and captured her lips with his own. Her eyes turned dark and deeply violet. He loved seeing her eyes change when she became aroused, knowing he was the one responsible.

"See you soon," she whispered against his lips, before she turned away. He smiled a bit and watched her go, admiring the gentle sway of her hips, before he reeled himself in again. He abruptly turned around, shoving the door shut as he turned. He then walked back across the room while whipping out his phone to send his brother a text.

\- Kyrie on her way to Janine's. Meeting up with her at Angelo's when she gets back. She's alone till then. S

\- Someone is already keeping an eye out. M

Neither of them addressed Magnussen or Sherlock's assault on his brother. Though Kyrie didn't know it, she'd never been alone again after Gerulf's attack on her. Whenever she had to go out, shopping, visiting a friend... whatever she liked to do when she was not, well, looking after him actually. There was always someone shadowing her every move, making sure Gerulf – where-ever that monster was hiding – would not get a chance to hurt her again.

He tucked his phone back again. "You know Magnussen as a newspaper owner, but he's _so_ much more than that."

John looked up at him.

"He uses his power and wealth to gain information. The more he acquires, the greater his wealth and power."

Sherlock sat down at the dining table and opened his laptop. "I'm not exaggerating when I say that he knows the critical pressure point on every person of note or influence in the whole of the Western world and probably beyond. He is the Napoleon of blackmail..."

He pulled up a photograph of Magnussen's home, along with a blueprint of the building.

"... and he has created an unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge. Its name..."

He turned the laptop in John's direction so he could look at the screen.

"... is Appledore."

"Dinner," John suddenly said.

"Sorry, what, dinner?" Sherlock asked him confused.

"Me and Mary, coming for dinner... with... wine and... sitting."

John had to be kidding right? Sherlock couldn't believe his ears and stared at him. "Seriously? I've just told you that the Western world is _run_ from this house." He pointed at the screen of his laptop to emphasise the words. "And you want to talk about _dinner_?"

"Fine, talk about the _house_ ," John said exasperated.

Sherlock threw him a sideways glance but then turned back to his laptop. "Also, I doubt it would be wise for Mary to consume wine now that she's pregnant," he muttered. "Anyway, it is the greatest repository of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world…"

He looked at John over his shoulder, "... the Alexandrian Library of secrets and scandals – and _none_ of it is on a computer. He's smart – computers can be hacked. It's all on hard copy in vaults..."

He pointed at the rotating blueprint that was still shown on his screen, "... underneath that house. As long as it is, the personal freedom of _anyone_ you've ever met is a fantasy."

They both looked up when there was a knock on the living room door accompanied with a familiar sounding 'Yoo-hoo'. Sure enough, the door opened and Mrs Hudson appeared. She pointed back down the stairs. "Oh, that was the doorbell. Couldn't you hear it?" she asked him.

"It's in the fridge. It kept ringing," Sherlock told her.

"Oh, that's not a _fault_ , Sherlock!" she chided him.

"Isn't it?"

John chuckled at that. "Who is it?" he asked.

Mrs Hudson looked rather nervous and drew in an anxious breath. "Oh, forgot his name. He's... of the unpleasant sort. Foreign name, I think."

"You can show him up. Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock didn't have to wait long. Soon, three men filed into the living room. They were clearly part of a security detail considering the way of dress, the earpieces and the way they carried themselves.

The moment one of the goons with a pony-tail approached him, Sherlock sighed in a long-suffering manner. "Oh, go ahead," he said and he spread his arms allowing the man to frisk him. The second one walked over to John while the third took in his surroundings and scrunched up his nose in disgust.

When John wasn't so forthcoming as him to allow himself to be frisked, security man number two addressed him about it.

"Sir?"

"Can I have a moment?" John asked.

Sherlock lowered his arms when the goon was done frisking him and looked over at John's goon, rolling his eyes a bit. "Oh, he's fine."

The man briefly looked at Sherlock and, as if that was all the encouragement he needed, knelt in front of John and started frisking him.

"Er, I... right. I should probably tell you..."

The bodyguard reached into John's jacket pocket and took out a flick-knife and held it up for him to see.

"Okay, I... That." He stopped talking when the man continued his search and pulled open his jacket.

"And..."

The bodyguard went to stand up and held a... wait... was that a tyre lever? The goon gave John a stern look while Sherlock could only imagine the look of shock on his own face.

Suddenly John leaned forward and gave the man a pointed look. "Doesn't mean I'm _not_ pleased to see you."

Sherlock had to cover his mouth to hide a smile. The bodyguard did not seem as amused though. "I can vouch for this man. He's a doctor," he quickly said. "If you know who I am, then you know who _he_ is..."

He turned his head towards the door where another visitor appeared, just shy of the doorway.

"...don't you, Mr Magnussen?"

Sherlock watched Magnussen enter his home, looking around with an expression of mild distaste on his face.

"I understood we were meeting at _your_ office."

Magnussen gestured around him. "This _is_ my office. Though I must say, your wife appears to be a better PA than a... house keeper. How is she by the way? I heard she made a full recovery after her little... incident?"

Sherlock could feel his blood run cold at his mention of her. "She did make a full recovery. You were very quick to replace her though."

Magnussen walked over towards the sofa and gazed intently at them, before he picked up a newspaper and went to sit down.

"I am a busy man and I rely heavily on a good PA. Surely you understand I can't do without a PA for such a long time? Can't make exceptions I'm afraid. Not even for someone as... gifted... as your wife. She did always anticipate my needs very well."

"But she is not the reason you are here. Mr Magnussen, I have been asked to intercede with you by Lady Elizabeth Smallwood on the matter of her husband's letters."

Magnussen was paying precious little attention to him. Sherlock frowned a bit when he noticed the man was more preoccupied with the comfort, or discomfort, of having to sit on his sofa. Then he took a look at the newspaper in his hand.

"Some time ago you... put pressure on her concerning those letters."

That got his attention. Magnussen finally deigned to look up at him, leaning back on the sofa.

"She would like those letters back," Sherlock continued.

Sherlock got a... strange sensation... as Magnussen subjected him to silent and intense gaze. There was something unnerving about the way that man was studying him. Usually Sherlock himself was the one doing the studying... it was an odd feeling to find himself on the other side of observation.

Sherlock furrowed his brows at the man's silence, but pressed on anyway. He clasped his hands behind his back. "Obviously the letters no longer have any practical use to you, so with that in mind..."

He stopped abruptly, noticing the bemused look on Magnussen's face. When he stopped, Magnussen gave a quiet snort.

Sherlock puffed out a breath, feeling slightly insulted. "Something I said?"

"No, no. I-I was reading," Magnusses assured him, adjusting his glasses. "There's rather a lot."

Sherlock frowned at him. Until Magnussen suddenly said, "Readbeard."

He blinked at the man and his mouth opened ever so slightly.

"Sorry," Magnussen said apologetic. "S-sorry. You were probably talking?"

"I..."

His mind ran a momentarily blank. _That did not happen often!_ He quickly cleared his throat.

"I was trying to explain that I've been asked to act on behalf of..."

Magnussen just continued to ignore him again and Sherlock began to suspect he was only doing it because he could... to see if it would rattle him. Odious man!

"Bathroom?" Magnussen asked the bodyguard next to John.

The goon nodded to his right, his hands folded in front of him. "Along from the kitchen, sir."

"Okay."

"I've been asked to negotiate the return of those letters," Sherlock tried again, speaking more firmly and also a bit quicker.

Magnussen, again, ignored him. He just casually took off his glasses and looked towards the window.

"I'm aware you do not make copies of sensitive documents..."

"Is it like the rest of the flat?"

Magnussen not only cut him off again, the way he gestured at his surroundings, Sherlock's property, was insulting.

"Sir?" the man asked, not understanding the simple question that was directed at him.

"The bathroom?"

"Er, yes, sir."

"Am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the man's rudeness. He refused to let that man rattle him.

Magnussen met his eyes, just for a brief moment, before he looked off into space. "Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. I like her," he said contemplative. He raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's again and he smacked his lips a few times.

"Mr Magnussen, am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?" Sherlock asked again.

"She's English, with a spine," Magnussen said, still not answering his question.

As if he owed the place, he lifted his right foot and placed it against the side of the coffee table.

" _Sherlock, how many times...?"_ he could hear Kyrie say to him, exasperation clear in her voice. _"No shoes!"_

Magnusses shoved the coffee table away from him. Sherlock briefly couldn't hide his disdain and the disrespect shown by this... creature.

His opponent stood up and made a brief gesture with his hands. Sherlock noticed how the bodyguard next to him stepped forward to the fireplace and removed the fire guard from the front.

"Best thing about the English," Magnussen said as he walked over to where Sherlock and John were standing. He stopped just shy off them and looked from one at the other.

"... you're _so_ domesticated. All standing around, apologising, keeping your little heads down."

He stepped between them so he was right in front of the fireplace and Sherlock could hear how he unzipped his trousers.

"You can do what you like here. No-one's ever going to stop you."

Soon enough, Sherlock could hear him urinating into the fireplace, defiling the part of his home. He carefully kept his gaze fixed on his wall of information, or just his smiley wall at the moment.

"A nation of herbivores." Magnussen continued while still urinating in the fireplace.

Sherlock couldn't prevent his lips to part just slightly.

"I've interests all over the world but, er, everything starts in England."

Sherlock could hear from the splashing sounds that Magnussen was either not good at aiming straight, or he was intentionally making a mess of things.

"If it works here..."

The sound of urinating stopped and there was a brief pause and a contented sigh before Sherlock heard the man zip up his trousers again.

"... I'll try it in a _real_ country."

Magnussen casually strolled back into the living room, accepting a wet wipe that was offered to him by the bodyguard that was assigned to John as he went. He turned around to face them again.

"The United Kingdom, huh?" he said in a scathing tone as he started to wipe his hands. "Petri dish to the Western world."

He briefly looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes, before he dropped his gaze back to his hands, as if wiping them was more interesting to him.

"Tell Lady Elizabeth I might need those letters, so I'm keeping them."

With those words, he finished wiping his hands and he dropped the wipe to the floor. He briefly looked at it. "Goodbye," he finally said dismissively. He turned to leave, but instantly turned back as he put his hand into his jacket's inside breast pocket.

"Anyway..." He chuckled and pulled out the edge of a packet of documents and showed Sherlock what he had in his possession.

"... they're funny."

That little move caught Sherlock's attention and the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

Magnussen smirked at him and carefully tucked the packet securely back into his jacket and left the room. His security goons followed him quickly.

The moment their footsteps could be heard bounding down the stairs, John took an aggressive step forward.

"Fucking hell!" he cried out.

"Did you notice the one extraordinary thing he did?" Sherlock asked him, bemused.

"Wh... There _was_ a moment that kind of stuck in the mind, yeah," John said.

Ah, good, so John noticed too. Sherlock smiled. "Exactly," he said softly and he pointed his finger to stress his next words. "When he showed us the letters!"

His mind was kicking back in gear again as he walked across the room.

"... Okay," John said.

Hmm, he sounded a bit deflated there. Better get him back into the right state of mind.

"So, he's brought the letters to London... So no matter what he says, he's ready to make a deal," he said getting excited, walking over to the dinner table.

"Now, Magnussen only makes a deal once he's established a person's weaknesses – the 'pressure point,' he calls it," Sherlock said in a scathing tone as he picked up his coat from one of the dining chairs and put it on. "So, clearly he believes I'm a drug addict and no serious threat."

Sherlock briefly glanced out of the window to see how one of the goons closed the rear door of a car parked just outside of their flat.

He turned around again and wildly flourished his hands in enthusiasm. "And, of course, because he's in town tonight, the letters will be in his safe in his London office while he's out to dinner with the Marketing Group of Great Britain from seven 'til ten."

"How-how do you know his schedule?" John asked, casting an incredulous look at him.

"Because I do," Sherlock waved his remark away. His mind was too busy to go into trivial things at the moment. "Right – I'll see you tonight. I'm meeting Kyrie for lunch now.

He headed out the door and bounded down the stairs. He could hear John calling after him.

"What's tonight?"

Sherlock stopped underneath the stairs. "I'll text instructions," he yelled up.

"Yeah, I'll text _you_ if I'm available," John yelled down at him.

Sherlock grinned. "You are! I checked!"

He made his way out of the flat and was followed suit by John.

"Don't bring a gun," Sherlock warned him.

"Why would I bring a gun?" John asked puzzled.

"Or a knife, or a tyre lever. Probably best not to do any arm-spraining, but we'll see how the night goes," he quipped and he raised his arm when he spotted an an approaching taxi.

"You're just assuming I'm coming along?"

"Time you got out of the house, John," Sherlock told him as he looked him up and down as the taxi pulled up. "You've put on seven pounds since you got married, and the cycling isn't doing it. Kyrie's cooking skills have always been excellent. So, either Mary can't cook and you are secretly gorging yourself on junk food, or you need to have a little chat with her about nutritional values."

He opened the cab door and climbed inside.

"It's actually four pounds. And um, I won't deny Kyrie is an excellent cook..." John grinned at him. "But Mary's better!"

Sherlock shut the door and looked back at him through a half-open window. "Mary and I think seven. And... no, she's not! See you later."

He sat down on the seat and gave his destination to the driver.

"Northumberland Street," Sherlock said. He furrowed his brows. Could Mary really be a better cook than Kyrie? He pondered the thought for a moment. Nah.


	63. Breaking in

**A/N -groans- I've been awake throughout most of the night! "What happened?" you may ask. Well, let me tell you. I was busy writing 'The Abominable Bride' and Sherlock and Kyrie decided to throw me an emotional curve ball I did not see coming when I started writing that episode! It was late last night and it's a scene that happens right after that episode. I'm not even there yet in terms of writing! But... _that_ happened. And I needed to write it down. But, it was way too late and I couldn't get the right words out. So, I decided to go to bed and let the scene play out in my head. It did so for pretty much the rest of the night because I was afraid I'd forget it otherwise. **

**So, leave reviews, send me support, send me comfort food, send me chocolate chip cookies and maybe a shock blanket. I will need it!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Last chapter was great to write. I loved that little chapter from his POV, giving a minor glimpse of what goes on in that head of his. He's a lot more comfortable allowing to 'enjoy' his sentiment for Kyrie while still able to switch quickly to his 'professional' mode. I can definitely see why Mary did what she did. I will try and edit the scene in such a way that Sherlock pin points her actions more precisely.**

 **EllemichelleP Glad you are still loving the story! Hope you feel better and that the pain isn't so bad!**

 **DreamonAlina Yes, Kyrie is very defensive of 'her' Sherlock, but, you have to keep in mind it's easier to rip someone apart you don't particularly like. It's entirely different when someone betrays you who you loved...**

 **Just a few reviews to answer this time. Anyway, on with the story. I hope you will enjoy this chapter! And... wish me luck! I have to go deep myself now and write the most emotional scene I've ever written so far. Ever!**

 **SSS**

Kyrie felt a bit self-conscious. She'd been waiting for Sherlock for about forty-five minutes now and there were couples in Angelo's restaurant. Couples who were starting to give her pitying looks. It was annoying.

She studied the menu, which she almost knew by heart at this point, when she heard the door open and a familiar voice say, "Thank you, Billy."

Kyrie glanced over her shoulder and she saw Sherlock walking up to their usual table. He shrugged off his coat and folded it over the chair next to him as he took his seat opposite of her.

As always, she noticed her heartbeat speed up at the mere sight of him and the sound of his voice. There were days she still couldn't believe they were actually in a real relationship now.

"Sorry for being late. I hope I haven't kept you long," he said as he took off his scarf and placed it on top of his coat. "Have you ordered yet?"

"Um, no, I was waiting for you," Kyrie told him quickly. "Are you just calling everyone 'Billy' now?"

"What? No, of course not! That's his name! And you should have ordered, I'm not having anything."

She rolled her eyes. "You said 'Let's have lunch together,' I assumed you'd be doing some eating as well."

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. "With that I meant, 'Let's go somewhere where you can eat and I can watch you eat.' But that doesn't have the same ring to it though, don't you think?"

Kyrie sighed and gave him a pleading look. "Please, eat something with me? Pick something small at least, or nick something off my plate. I don't want to sit here eating on my own."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and briefly pulled the menu towards him. He quickly scanned it. "Fine, if you... um... order the 'risotto a la paesana', I'll take a few bites."

Kyrie smiled up at him. Angelo hurried over seeing Sherlock's swift gesture of his hand and took the order.

"How did the meeting go?" she asked, taking a sip of her grape juice.

"He's a petty little man. Finding pleasure in being a rude obnoxious prick. I've been asked to negotiate the return of certain... letters... that Magnussen currently holds in his possession. I'm planning to retrieve them back, tonight. Did you tell Janine?"

Kyrie nodded at him. "Yes. She's not thrilled by the prospect of course but she knows she can expect us. In case questions are asked, she boxed some of my things I never had a chance to pick up. We should have a clear way up." Kyrie sighed. "In the event security gets curious, you're just there to escort me. They will buy that after Gerulf..." She didn't finish her sentence.

"Good," Sherlock said, watching her intently. "We should have no problems retrieving the letters then. Another case solved."

Kyrie looked up at him. "Things are rarely that easy when you are involved, Sherlock," she said.

"What do you mean? I've had plenty of easy cases, this is one of them. Probably one of the easiest. Just... fetch some letters."

"I hope you are right."

Angelo came back and placed the risotto in front of Kyrie. She smiled up at him and pushed the plate to the middle of the table.

"Come one," Kyrie urged him, "If it's really such an easy case, you might as well eat a bit."

Sherlock sighed and picked up his fork to take a bite.

"Your parents invited us over for Christmas," she said. She then watched in bemusement when he nearly choked.

"Christmas?" he panted after a brief coughing fit. "They invited us for Christmas? Didn't we just celebrate that?"

"We didn't," Kyrie said softly. "I didn't have a lot to celebrate when you were gone and last Christmas I was still in the hospital. In the nearly five years we've been married, I got to celebrate it with you _once_."

Sherlock was silent for a moment but Kyrie knew he was contemplating the matter. Finally, he gave her a curt nod. "You can tell them we'll be there."

He looked at her for a moment. "You do know they were under strict instructions... not to tell you, right? I hope... you won't hold that against them."

Kyrie smiled sadly. "I don't. But I won't deny it doesn't hurt. You know, all these people... Mycroft, your parents. _Molly_ ," she said with a scoff. "They could have eased my suffering with just a word or a phone call."

"They really couldn't," Sherlock countered.

She quickly wiped at her eyes before she took a sip of her drink. Her hand trembled a bit when she sat back her glass. When she did, Sherlock briefly covered her hand with his.

"Never again, I promise," he said softly.

She looked up at him and saw that he meant it. She smiled at him and Sherlock quickly pulled back his hand after a last comforting squeeze.

"You don't seem to like Molly. Why's that?" he suddenly asked.

Kyrie could feel her cheeks heat up. She knew she would just come across as the clichéd jealous wife.

"It's not that I don't like her," she started hesitantly. "It's that she likes _you_ a bit too much. I'm not sure if you noticed but... she has a major crush on you. Like... if you'd ever asked her out on a date, she probably would have shown up in a wedding dress."

Sherlock chuckled at the comment but quickly sobered again. "Oh, I know. I've been using it to my advantage for years."

"What?"

"Her crush," Sherlock clarified. "I've been using her infatuation with me."

Kyrie could only stare at him. "Why?" she managed to ask at some point.

"Well, if I ever needed information or certain access and she wouldn't cooperate... I'd give her a bit of incentive... a little smile, a little joke... a compliment... And then she'd cooperate."

She took an absent-minded bite of her risotto and resumed staring at him again.

"There's something on your mind that you want to tell me but you aren't telling me..." Sherlock stated.

"It's no use," she countered.

"Why not?"

"You wouldn't listen."

He thought for a moment. "Ethics and morals?"

She nodded. "Yep, that's the one."

"Better not then."

They ate in silence for a bit.

"Christmas at my parent's..." he said after a while. "I'm kind of hoping the world will come to an end before that."

Kyrie erupted with laughter at the comment, something he seemed to be pleased at.

SSS

When the evening had well set in, Sherlock and Kyrie walked up to the entrance of a large skyscraper building. The place was very familiar to Kyrie. She had worked here for about a year after all... the building that housed CAM Global News.

In the foyer there was a TV screen broadcasting the company's news channel. They paid it little attention. Well, Kyrie paid it little attention. She knew there was very little that could escape Sherlock's sweeping gaze.

They soon found their friend standing just shy of the security barriers that needed an electronic key card to open them. He was just checking his watch when they walked up behind him.

"Magnussen's office is on the top floor, just below his private flat..." Sherlock told John as he looked towards the lift doors on the next level up. "Kyrie?"

"There are fourteen layers of security between us and him, two of which aren't even legal in this country. Three of them have been installed after I left," she told them.

"Want to know how we're going to break in?" Sherlock asked.

"Is that what we're doing?"

"Of course it's what we're doing."

He turned around and walked away.

"Um, wrong direction, Sherlock," Kyrie told him.

"Not for coffee," he retorted.

Later, the boys were each carrying a takeaway cup of coffee while Kyrie cradled a cup of tea. They were headed to one of the escalators in the building.

"Magnussen's private lift," Kyrie told John. "It goes straight to his penthouse and office. Only _he_ uses it..." She briefly paused when they made a turn to get on the escalator, "... and only _his_ key card calls the lift. Anyone else even tries, or even looks at the lift wrong, security is automatically informed."

They got off at the top and walked towards the lift. Sherlock held up a key card and stopped walking. "Standard key card for the building. Nicked it yesterday. Only gets us as far as the canteen."

Sherlock looked at John, and pointed the key card in the direction of the lift.

"If I was to use this card on that lift now, what happens?"

John pondered the thought. Kyrie didn't need to think... she knew...

"Er, the alarms would go off and you'd be dragged away by security," John said.

Sherlock nodded his head in approval. "Exactly."

"Get taken to a small room somewhere and your head kicked in."

Sherlock looked round at John. "Do we really need so much colour?" he asked a bit wryly.

"It passes the time," John deadpanned.

"You know what else passes the time, John?" Kyrie asked. "Making you eyeball tea, human kidney stew, _toe_ -in-the-hole..."

"I think I get the point."

"And you'd never know. I could feed you human organs like Hannibal and you'd never even know."

"All right, stop it, now! I'm sorry I even suggested Sherlock getting his head kicked in!"

Sherlock was staring at the floor, his shoulders shaking suspiciously. Kyrie lightly patted his back.

"I think I liked you better when you and Sherlock weren't an item," John grumbled. "You're only defending _him_ now."

Kyrie grinned at him and pecked him on his cheek. He smiled again when she ruffled his hair.

Sherlock handed Kyrie his coffee cup. He took his phone from his jacket and showed it to John.

"Let's get on with this, shall we? If I do _this_..." He pressed the security card against his phone. "If you press a key card against your mobile phone for long enough, it corrupts the magnetic strip. The card stops working. It's a common problem – never put your key card with your phone."

He looked back up at John. "What happens if I use the card now?"

"It still doesn't work," John said.

"But it doesn't read as the wrong card now," Sherlock explained. "It registers as corrupted. But if it's corrupted, how do they know it's not Magnussen?"

John glanced round a bit, "Huh."

"Would they risk dragging _him_ off?

"Probably not."

"So what do they do? What do they have to do?" Sherlock prodded him.

"Check if it's him or not."

Sherlock nodded his head. "There's a camera at eye height to the right of the door. A live picture of the card user is relayed directly to Magnussen's personal staff in his office – the only people trusted to make a positive ID. At this hour, almost certainly his PA."

"That used to be me, by the way," Kyrie said.

"Yes, that used to be you. Now _that_ would have made tonight a whole lot easier. And ultimately, I think, the reason Magnussen replaced you almost to the day of my return. Given his proclivities, he knew it was only a matter of time before someone would hire me to go after him. Foreseeing that, Magnussen realised he could no longer trust you as his PA, so, he replaced you."

"S-so how's that help us?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled at him. "Human error." He then walked along the corridor to the lift. Kyrie and John quickly followed him.

They reached the lift doors and Sherlock pulled the key card through the reader.

"Here we go, then," he said. He gestured at Kyrie and stepped back.

Kyrie stepped up in front of the camera.

"You realise that Kyrie looks nothing like Magnussen?" John asked.

"Thank God!" Sherlock exclaimed so heartfelt that Kyrie had to giggle.

"Kyrie, I was um... expecting you..." Janine's voice quietly sounded over the intercom.

"Hang on – was that...? That...!"

"I've got your stuff up here, you'll need to sign for it though. Come on up."

The screen of the card reader turned from red to blue and the lift doors opened for them.

"Thank you," Kyrie said softly.

"You see? As long as there's people, there's always a weak spot."

Sherlock and Kyrie turned towards the elevator, but John stopped them.

"That was Janine."

"Yes, of course it was Janine. She replaced Kyrie as Magnussen's PA. That's the whole point."

"Of what?"

"Magnussen knew he could no longer trust Kyrie, she would let me up in a heartbeat. So, he replaced her... With Janine."

"Yeah, so?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.

"Magnussen didn't count in the fact that me and Janine are friends, John. Close friends. He doesn't give a damn about his employees because for him... we don't matter. Since I'm not just a friend but I also used to be her colleague, we are now pretending to pick up some old belongings I need to sign for. You and Sherlock are here to protect me, in case Gerulf wants to attack me again."

"And she knows?"

"Of course she does," Sherlock scoffed. "It's all been planned in advance."

"Wow... that is... kind of brilliant. And a coincidence..." John said.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "The universe is rarely so lazy..." he said softly.

"What's that?" Kyrie asked.

He shook his head and gave her a quick smile. "Nothing."

The lift stopped at floor 32 and the doors opened up. Sherlock walked out, soon followed by John and Kyrie and he looked around for Janine. As they went, it soon became clear that there was no sign of her. Sherlock noticed the frown on Kyrie's face.

"That's odd," she said, looking up at him. "This isn't like Janine."

John walked across the room towards the window. "Kyrie, Sherlock... she's over here," he suddenly said.

Sherlock needed but a few strides to get to where John was currently bending down to the floor.

Kyrie gasped when she joined him.

"What happened?" she asked.

John took his hand from her hand and Sherlock noticed the blood on his fingers.

"Blow to the head," he replied before bending closer to her. "She's breathing. Janine?"

She moaned quietly.

Sherlock ventured further into the rest of the office and quickly walked across.

"Another in here," Sherlock told them.

John looked over at him, but still tended to his current patient. Kyrie was kneeling down, next to her friend, her face contorted with worry.

Sherlock briefly looked at the unconscious man in a suit, lying face down on the floor. He then did a full-circle to look around the rest of the room.

"Security," Sherlock told John.

"Does he need help?" John asked him.

He walked over to the man's side and looked down at him. He spotted the earpiece, the small tattoo behind his ear and also the small tattoo between his thumb and index finger.

"Ex-con. White supremacist, by the tattoo, so who cares? Stick with Janine," he ordered John.

John didn't seem too happy about leaving someone unconscious unchecked, but Janine was more important to his wife, thus more to him... while this lowlife meant absolutely zilch to him.

"Janine, focus on my voice now. Can you hear me?"

John's words briefly brought him back to that one night... so long ago... He'd been an absolute cock towards Kyrie which had caused her to flee the safety of their flat. And then, out there, alone and scared, the emotional trauma of Gerulf's assault on her at his parents' place had caught up with her. It was John who had managed to find her that night. And he'd been talking to her in a soothing voice, much as he was doing with Janine now.

Sherlock shook his head. No time for sentiment. He walked over to the nearby glass desk and bent down. He held his hand over the top while looking closely at it. He worked his way round to the other side, minutely taking in every little detail.

He squatted down to the leather chair behind the desk and put his hand on the seat. Still warm, the seat had recently been occupied.

Suddenly John stepped closer to wards him. He pointed back at Janine. "Hey," he said in a loud whisper to get his attention. "They must still be here."

Sherlock straightened himself up from his crouched position. "So's Magnussen," he replied, also in a loud whisper. "His seat's still warm. He should be at dinner but he's still in the building."

He looked around when his eyes were drawn upwards. "Upstairs!" he told John.

John took his phone from his pocket. "We should call the police."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "During our own burglary?! You're really not a natural at this, are you?" he said, perhaps a bit more condescending than he meant to.

John sighed, but did switch off his phone again.

"What do we do now?" Kyrie asked.

"No, wait, shh!" Sherlock instantly sniffed deeply and very audibly. He waved his hands towards him, trying to recapture that lingering smell that just very briefly hit his nose. He closed his eyes in concentration and took a final, deep long sniff.

Versace? No. 5?

"Perfume," Sherlock said. "Not Janine's, not Kyrie's either."

He got distracted by the faulty notions of Prada and Dior, he quickly waved his hands as if to dispel them from his head. His eyes flared open and he pointed upward when he recognised the fragrance.

"Claire-de-la-lune," he muttered. He turned around and grimaced in frustration. "Why do I know it?"

John was kneeling next to Kyrie. He looked up from his vigilant watch near Janine. "Mary wears it," he said.

"No, not Mary. Somebody else," Sherlock told him. He perked his ears when he heard a noise coming from upstairs. He looked up, his gaze focussed and intense.

"Sherlock!" John warned him.

"He's running off again, isn't he?" Sherlock just managed to hear Kyrie say. She was right though, he was already off and running across the room the stairwell and hurried upwards. He paused for a brief moment to look up the stairs, before he quickly bounded up them, two steps at a time.

Upstairs Sherlock reached the private chambers of Magnusses. He quietly moved himself across a carpeted hall. He could hear voices!

He inched closer. It was Magnussen... sounding quite anxious, tearfully actually...

"Coming here? What... What would your husband think, heh?"

There was a door at the end of the hall, it was partially open. Sherlock slowly moved in.

"He... your lovely husband, upright, honourable..." Magnussen told... someone.

Sherlock peered through the gap of the partially open door and saw Magnussen on his knees, his hands behind his hand... cowering. He was about to get executed!

"... so English. What-what would he say to you now?"

Someone was standing in front of him, their back turned towards Sherlock. All he could see were black clothes and hands wearing black gloves that briefly pulled back a gun with silencer to cock it, before pointing the business end back at him again.

Magnussen was nearly pissing himself with fear. He cowered and whimpered and lapsed back to his native tongue. "Nej, nej!"

Sherlock slowly pushed the door open and bore witness to Magnussen begging for his life.

"You're-you're doing this to protect him from the truth... but is this protection he would want?"

Sherlock silently advanced into the room, until he was just a few feet behind the unknown assailant pointing the gun.

"Additionally, if you're going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume... Lady Smallwood," Sherlock said with a slight smile now that he remembered why he recognised the perfume... he'd smelled it when Lady Smallwood had hired him to retrieve those letters.

Magnussen uttered a terrified gasp and looked up at Sherlock in surprise. "Sorry. Who?"

The man's reaction surprised Sherlock. He took a closer look at the assailant's back. Definitely woman. He looked back at the terrified expression on Magnussen's face.

"That's... not... Lady Smallwood, Mr Holmes," Magnussen whispered at him.

Sherlock frowned a bit. The assailant in black turned to face him and suddenly he was staring down the barrel of the gun himself, standing face to face with none other than Mary Elizabeth Watson.

He thought back to countless of their meetings and interactions and suddenly remembered that one evening... The evening of his return... He'd known that she was hiding something, he just hadn't wanted to linger at the thought. That might turn out to be a fatal mistake.

"Is John with you?" she asked him.

"He's, um..." He couldn't quite finish his sentence. He was in a bit of a shock.

"Is John _here_?" she asked him again.

"He-he's downstairs," he managed to say. "Kyrie as well."

She nodded at him.

"So, what do you do now? Kill us both?" Magnussen asked her, his voice still trembling.

Mary kept her gun trained on Sherlock, but managed to cast Magnussen a brief humourless smile over her shoulder.

"Mary, whatever he's got on you, let me help," Sherlock pleaded with her. He shifted his weight onto his most forward foot, preparing to take a step closer.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mary said in an exasperated tone. She'd caught on his intentions. "If you take one more step I swear I will kill you."

Sherlock looked at her. His best friend's wife. Best friend to _his_ wife. He gave her small knowing smile.

"No, Mrs Watson..."

Her lips parted slightly.

"You won't," he said, his voice gentle as he took the step.

She immediately pulled the trigger. He gave her a look of surprise before he looked down at his chest. There was a small tiny hole... just above the V of his buttoned jacket... just slightly to the right of his shirt buttons. Such a small tiny hole...

Strange, he didn't feel a thing. The little hole and then the blood that came pouring out... the only evidence he'd just been shot.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mary told him, her voice breaking a bit. "Truly am."


	64. Finding Peace Inside

**A/N I think I'm still alive. Thank goodness _that_ scene is finally over and done with! I will probably go back to it to make changes (if needed) when I actually get to that moment, but at least the scene itself has been written. Also, as you know, I AM writing 'The Abominable Bride', but I will start it somewhere around a third into the main plot. Before that, I have no other option but to just follow the script and... well... you guys can just watch that on tv :-D**

 **You guys however, will first have the pleasure of following Sherlock as he races through his Mind Palace to find the solution to staying alive. He has a lot to come back to after all! Will continue in the next chapter as well.**

 **Katt96 Yeah apparently FF has been a little bitch again. I didn't know you were writing a Sherlock story! Since I couldn't find it on FF, I take it you want to write more before you publish. I'm really curious what your storyline is! Good luck with it, anyway!**

 **The wickedprincess Thank you! Yeah, you guys have a few emotional scenes coming up as well, though they weren't nearly as hard to write as what I did yesterday. I'm glad it's finished!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Aw, thank you! Really means a lot to me that you think my Sherlock is well-rounded. Haha, I laughed when I read what line has become your favourite. It just popped in my head! It's kind of hilarious you have a Molly like friend (in that regard!). Well, you are still quite a few chapters away from what I've written yesterday. I hope it will rip your heartstrings because it completely snapped mine!**

 **Guest Wow, nearly 15 chapters to read in one day. I'm glad you enjoyed them! Thanks for leaving me a review and I hope you will continue to read and enjoy this story!**

 **DreamonAlina You will now find out ;-)**

SSS

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mary told him, her voice breaking a bit. "Truly am."

"Mary?" he whispered, barely aware of what had just happened.

He saw her turn around, point her gun at Magnussen as if she was about to shoot him too, while his own blood was still seeping from his body.

Sherlock was barely clinging on to his conscience, but he knew... if he wanted to survive this, he had exactly one opportunity to at least aid in raising his chances of survival. His Mind Palace.

Everything froze, he heard alarms blaring loudly. The room darkened around him and part of him was racing down a flight of stairs in a white-walled building. It was an old building. No one lived there any more. The paint was peeling from the walls, the concrete of the uncarpeted stairs were crumbling and the lacquer on the bannisters was cracking off.

As that part of him started a mad descend, clinging to the bannisters with one hand and bracing his other hand on the wall as he continued his dash downstairs... Molly suddenly appeared next to him in Magnussen's room.

She was wearing her white lab coat and walked around from behind him. She smiled. "It's not like it is in the movies. There's not a great big spurt of blood and you go flying backwards."

She walked in front of him and the scenery shifted. Everything turned bright white.

Her smile faded as she walked. "The impact isn't spread over a wide area."

They were now in the mortuary and she walked over to a body lying on a slab in the middle of the room. The body was covered in a white sheet and Sherlock spotted an ID tag tied to one bare toe.

"It's tightly focussed," Molly continued. "So there's little or no energy transfer."

She reached down and quickly pulled back the sheet, revealing the body to him. Sherlock was suddenly looking at himself... His own dead body under the sheet: naked, cold... his eyes closed.

"You stay still..." she said, pulling the sheet back to his waist. He saw the little hole in his lower chest.

"... and the bullet pushes through."

He swallowed. This wasn't real. Not yet. It could be real though. He just couldn't _let_ it be real. It would break Kyrie's heart and he couldn't do that to her. Not again. He listened intently to every word Molly had to say to him.

"You're almost certainly going to die, so we need to focus."

Molly slapped him hard across the face, causing his dead, or not so dead, body to haul in a huge gasp of breath. His eyes snapped open as his head jerked to the side from the blow.

In Magnussen's room, both Magnussen and Mary were still frozen. They were not important right now. The only thing that mattered this moment was Molly... she could help him survive. She could help him make sure he wouldn't make Kyrie a widow for real this time.

Molly appeared in front of him. "I said... focus!"

She slapped him again. His head snapped round and suddenly he's back in the bright white room. He was still reeling from the slap.

"Yes, I can slap hard too if I need to!" she told him.

He straightened up and looked around, bewildered. When he looked at Molly, they were back in the mortuary. He was standing on one side of his body; she was standing on his other side.

"It's all well and clever having a Mind Palace, but you've only three seconds of consciousness left to use it. So, come on – what's going to kill you?"

Sherlock briefly looked down at his own dead body. He raised it eyes to meet Molly's again. "Blood loss," he said.

"Exactly," she told him quietly, her gaze intense.

He cast her a pleading look... _Help me to prevent this!_ It was a silent plea, but Molly understood. She was helping him.

"So, it's all about one thing now," she said.

He started to sway back and forth a bit, even though he had his hands braced on the table in front of him.

"Forwards, or backwards?"

Back in Magnussen's room, he was still standing upright, staring ahead of himself.

"We need to decide which way you're going to fall," Molly said.

Suddenly Anderson appeared behind him. "One hole, or two?"

Sherlock cast him a confused glance over his shoulder. "Sorry?" he asked on a near whisper.

Anderson stayed silent, he merely raised his eyebrows at him.

"Is the bullet still inside you..."

Sherlock turned back to look at Molly.

"... or is there an exit wound? It will depend on the gun."

Sherlock pulled up images of all guns he knew that looked like the gun Mary had used to shoot him with.

"That one I think," he said when he noticed the diagram of a gun that looked quite similar. So many guns! So many that looked alike!

"Or that one."

He frowned, he couldn't be sure. He scrolled through the images. He had to find the right gun!

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock," his brother drawled.

Sherlock turned is head to the right and saw Mycroft sitting at his desk in his office at The Diogenes Club. He turned to walk towards him and gave him a puzzled look.

"It doesn't matter about the gun. Don't be stupid."

Mycroft leaned forward and folded his hands on the table in front of him. "You always were so stupid."

Sherlock approached the desk, but he'd reverted to his eleven year old self. He was wearing dark trousers and a white shirt with a buttoned dark green cardigan over it. He slowly walked towards his big brother.

"Such a disappointment," his big brother said disdainful.

Suddenly an elegant woman appeared in front of him. She was seated on his big brother's desk and she gave Mycroft a disapproving look.

"Careful 'Croft," the woman warned him with a melodious voice. "Or I'm going to sing 'Do you hear the people sing' over and over and over and over again until you want to kill yourself.

He turned at her. "You wouldn't!" he said appalled.

"I would. Now, are you going to help your little brother, or do you really want to try me out? Careful how you address him now."

Young Sherlock blinked his eyes at her. She was beautiful. She looked like she could be the queen of the fairies!

"Fine," Mycroft said. Sherlock smiled elated, seeing his big brother cave under the stern look of the fairy queen. "It doesn't matter about the gun."

He frowned up at his big brother. "Why not?"

"You saw the whole room when you entered it. What was directly behind you when you were murdered?"

That wasn't fair! "I've not been murdered _yet,"_ he said a bit petulant.

Mycroft got up from behind his desk and went to stand next to the beautiful lady. He leaned down to him. "Balance of probability, little brother," he said and then instantly, "Ouch!"

The lady had hit him over the head. She then turned to look at him, her eyes looking sad. He didn't like them looking sad.

"Look behind you, my love," she said. "Come back to me."

He started to look around and as he did, he could hear the alarms blaring again.

In Magnussen's room, he... adult he... turned around to find a row of panelled mirrors behind him on the wall. He looked into the mirrors and saw his brother's reflection looking back at him.

Sherlock stepped closer to the mirror, so did Mycroft.

"If the bullet had passed through you, what would you have heard?" Mycroft asked him.

"The mirror shattering," Sherlock said, realising.

"You _didn't_. Therefore...?"

Sherlock turned and slowly walked past his brother. "The bullet's still inside me," he said as he resumed his original position.

"So, we need to take him down backwards." He heard Anderson say somewhere behind him.

"I agree," Molly said, as she was standing in front of him again. "Sherlock..."

He turned his attention back to her. "... you need to fall on your back."

"Right now, the bullet is the cork in the bottle," Anderson told him as he walked from behind him to his right side as Molly walked to his left side.

"The bullet itself is blocking most of the blood flow," she said.

Anderson continued walking around him and came to a stop in front of him. "But any pressure or impact on the entrance wound could dislodge it."

"Plus, on your back, gravity's working for us," Molly told him, standing behind him now. "Fall now," she ordered him in a stern voice.

Sherlock's eyes dropped half-closed as his body began the slump. He had this sickly sensation of toppling backwards in very... slow... motion. Right before his body hits the floor, Sherlock was suddenly back in the white mortuary. The alarms blaring again. He stumbled against the cabinets in the wall where bodies were kept and pressed his hands against his ears to drown out the noise.

"What the hell is that?" he cried out. "What's happening?"

Right beside him, one of the cabinet doors opened and the tray slid out. It was own dead body that came back to haunt him again... His cold, dead, naked body with the closed eyes.

He gasped out in horror. No! He couldn't let that happen!

"You're going into shock," Molly told him from the other side of the tray. Sherlock struggled himself up and stared at her, his eyes wide open in fear.

"It's the next thing that's going to kill you," she told him.

"What do I do?" he asked her, a frantic look in his eyes.

Suddenly Mycroft was occupying Molly's place.

"Don't go into shock, obviously," his brother drawled. He looked around him with a disdainful look on his face as the alarms continued to blare.

"Must be _something_ in this ridiculous memory palace of yours that can calm you down."

His last words started to echo. '… calm you down.'

Sherlock stared at him.

" _Find_ it."

He screwed his eyes closed and concentrated on the part of him that was running down the long staircase. In slow motion now.

"The East Wind is coming, Sherlock," he heard his brother say. "It's coming to get you," he said in a sing-song voice.

Part of him was still stumbling down the stairs and he could hear himself repeat his brother's words in a vague whisper. "It's coming to get you."

Suddenly a door opened and Mary was standing in front of him, wearing her wedding dress. She shot him.

He screamed in pain and fell backwards.

Another part of him was running through a long corridor lined with countless wooden doors. Mycroft's voice spurred him on as he raced along the corridor. " _Find_ it,"he ordered him.

Sherlock ran to a nearby door and yanked it open. White light flooded out and he found himself in yet another corridor. But in this one, he wasn't alone... just a short distance away a dog was lying on the floor – an Irish setter – panting, looking at him.

"Hello, Redbeard. Here, boy. Come on!"

He leaned down and patted his knees enthusiastically, he smiled at his dog. The dog sat up.

"Come to me. It's okay. It's all right."

Redbeard started to trot along the corridor towards his eleven year old self again.

"Come on! It's me! It's me, come on!"

Redbeard broke into a run, barking as he made his way towards his young master.

His adult self squatted down in the middle of the corridor. He smiled in delight and still patted his legs encouragingly as his dog ran towards him. "Come on!"

His younger self smiled at Redbeard. " _Good_ boy! Clever boy!" Redbeard finally reached the boy, barking and wagging his tail in excitement. He knelt down, smiling happily as he started stroking his head and ears.

Redbeard also reached his adult self and started licking his face as Sherlock lovingly stroked the dogs head and ears.

"Hello, Redbeard. They're putting _me_ down too, now. It's no fun, is it?"

He suddenly slumped down onto his backside. He felt weak and disorientated. "Redbeard!" Sherlock made a feeble attempt to call his dog. He could hear him bark as he realised he was still falling backwards in Magnussen's flat.

When he finally did land on the carpet, he stared upwards without really seeing anything.

Suddenly he was back in 221 B. He blinked and found himself stretched out on the sofa, his head in Kyrie's lap as she caressed his head, her fingers softly raking through his curls. She was reading a book. A poem.

He frowned. What was she saying? Her voice was soft, as if she was muttering to herself.

"I love you as the plant that never blooms, but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;  
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body."

He blinked hearing the tenderness in her voice. He let the words wash over him, envelope him like a soothing blanket.

"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep."

When she stopped talking, he opened his eyes and suddenly found himself upright, staring at her.

"How long?" he asked her, his voice hoarse. He raised his hand to follow the contours of her cheekbones. "How long have you...?" He couldn't finish the damn sentence.

"...loved you?" she asked with a smile. She leaned forward and whispered against his ear. "Always."

He breathed in sharply through his nose and recalled moments of their life together... How she came into his life, how he acted towards her like a callous prick. How he wanted to protect her and keep her safe when he learned what Gerulf had done to her, the sacrifice she'd been willing to make to keep his parents safe.

He wondered... how had his feelings changed? When? He couldn't recall a defining moment. She had just crept into his heart. Just a small seed at first that had taken root and had started to grow. Until there was nothing else left but her. There was no way to root her out without doing irrevocable damage. The Woman? That was her. His wife. His Kyrie. THE Woman.

He swallowed hard. He couldn't say it. He couldn't tell her.

"I can't," he whispered and he felt tears itching down his cheek. "I'm sorry, I can't..."

"Shh, my love," she whispered, her lips softly grazing his. "It's okay."

"No, it's not," he said softly. "I'm just a selfish man who couldn't let you go. But you... you deserve so much more than what I can give you."

Kyrie leaned her forehead against his. "You already gave me the one thing I ever wanted."

"What?"

"You."

He closed his eyes, his face suddenly contorting in pain.

"I will find a way," he said through clenched teeth. "One day, I swear... I will find away to tell you. To let you know. I promise."

She smiled at him. "I'll be waiting."

He was being pulled back.

"Kyrie," he gasped and he stretched out his hand to her, he grabbed into thin air.

"Kyrie!" he yelled before his body got slumped backwards.


	65. Not dead yet

**A/N And here we are, one step closer to Kyrie finding out who exactly was responsible for shooting Sherlock. But, first he needs to wake up.**

 **First of, an apology. I've noticed that there were moments I didn't respond to a review. Apparently it sometimes happens that I see a review and then later another, older, review appears somewhere underneath it, making it easy for me to miss. Especially as FF isn't always nice enough to send me a notification. So, I apologise if you've left me a review that I did not respond to!**

 **Also a disclaimer. I forgot to mention in last chapter that the poem is created by Pablo Neruda.**

 **Artemis7448 I hope those were good cries! You okay? ;-)**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Kyrie knows Sherlock has some form of feelings for her, but since Sherlock never said something even akin to 'I love you' she does wonder how deep his feelings go for her. The 'queen of the fairies' was actually Kyrie herself. Sherlock was compartmentalising. Young Sherlock was a part or fragment of him that hasn't met her yet, but, since this is his entire Mind Palace another part of him conjured her there.**

 **Kuppcake I was glad to read that last chapter had a positive impact. I hope you will like this chapter as well!**

 **EllemichelleP Onions? Riiiight ;-) Did they manage to break your heart?**

 **DreamonAlina It is my absolute pleasure to write this story. Getting positive reviews about it makes the whole experience even better!**

 **EnchantedRiver I'm so glad you decided to give my story a chance, even though the length put you off at first. Thank you for your kind compliments! It's good to know you like the pacing. As for chapters... here is the new one. I pretty much update daily!**

 **Deschperado Nice to see you here again! Haha another one who had a lot of chapters to catch up to! If you have any suggestions for other good Sherlock/OC stories... I'd really like to know. So far the only story I think is really well written, is 15 minutes by elfabo.**

 **Okay, that's it for reviews. On with the story!**

SSS

"Without the shock, you're going to feel the pain," Molly told him in Redbeard's corridor. He was on his back and he started to convulse in pain on the floor. His eyes flared wide open, he clenched his teeth to bite through the excruciating pain.

"There's a hole ripped through you. Massive internal bleeding," she told him.

Sherlock was still convulsing, his face contorted in exceptional agony, no longer able to keep the pain inside. He opened his mouth and he screamed, the pain flooding him, crashing through him and ripping from his body.

"You _have_ to control the pain."

Sherlock was running down the stairs. Down and down he went. When he finally reached the bottom, screaming in blinding pain, he hurled himself through a door into circular padded cell. The floor was just plain concrete and the walls were heavily padded with dirty and grimy material that probably once had been white.

The door closed behind him and Sherlock flattened himself against the wall beside it. His whole body was still convulsing and he cried out from the pain that made every nerve ending in his body seem on fire. He was breathing loudly and he raised his eyes upwards, trying to get a grip on his body.

"Control! Control! Control..." His voice became less frantic with each word, as if merely uttering that one word actually did allow him to gain more control.

Suddenly Sherlock noticed a man on the other side of the room. A man who was forced into a filthy straitjacket that once had been white. He was wearing a large metal collar around his neck, weighed down by a heavy chain.

The man slowly turned his head towards him. Sherlock blinked his eyes, it was hard to focus his mind when he felt as if his entire body was slowly getting ripped apart. He stared at the man.

His eyes went wide, his nostrils flared and he bared his teeth at him, panting to keep the pain under control. He was failing. "You," he hissed. His breathing was erratic, loud and uneven. He forced himself to take a few steps forward.

"You never felt pain, did you? Why did you never feel _pain_?"

The man slowly turned his head even more, so Sherlock could actually see his face. "You _always_ feel it, Sherlock," Moriarty said.

Sherlock stared back at him, taking in the murderous expression on his dirty face; the way his face was taut and trembling and flushed dark red with indignant rage.

Suddenly Moriarty surged up and charged towards him, the lights around the walls flickered briefly. He roared at him with fury; his mouth wide open.

Sherlock recoiled at him, but just before Moriarty could slam into him, he reached the end of his chain and his own momentum pulled him back. He screamed manically into Sherlock's face. "But you don't have to fear it!"

Sherlock doubled over in pain. Too much... too much pain! He couldn't handle it... Couldn't keep it under control. It was killing him. He cried out at the severity and the amount of hurt his body was subjected to.

Moriarty just looked on with glee, his eyes wide, not a shred of sanity left, as Sherlock slowly crumpled to his knees and then slumped over onto his back. As he writhed in pain, Jim continued to stare at him with interest.

"Pain. Heartbreak. Loss..." he said.

Sherlock rolled onto his side. He screwed his face tight, fighting against it, tears streaming from his eyes as he clutched his chest.

"... death. It's _all_ good," Jim told him on a whisper.

Sherlock convulsed on the floor, moaning as waves of pain ripped through his body, crippling him.

Jim moved to his knees beside him. "It's _all_ good."

Sherlock was on his back, staring up, a helpless victim of his own body, caught in the throws of the convulsions racking through him.

"Sherlock?"

He blinked. That was Kyrie. She sounded upset. He was back in Magnussen's room, where she was gently stroking his face.

"Sherlock?"

John. He bent down to put his ear against Sherlock's mouth. "Can you hear me?"

Sherlock tried to focus on them, tell them everything would be all right. He couldn't. He was fading in and out of his Mind Palace.

"What happened?"

"He got shot."Magnussen's voice.

"No, God... please no!" Kyrie was crying.

The vague sensation of his jacket pulled to the side.

"Sherlock! No, please... please don't do this!"

Poor Kyrie. He tried to lift his hand, to touch her cheek but he couldn't do anything.

"Who shot him?" John demanded to know.

Mary... Mary had shot him.

" _Emergency. Which service to you require?"_

He drifted back to his Mind Palace where his body still lay convulsing on the floor.

Next to him, Jim was back on his feet and started to sing... slowly and softly... mocking him.

"It's raining, it's pouring... Sherlock is boring..."

He blinked his eyes. Sirens were wailing. The floating sensation of being picked up and then being wheeled on a stretcher into an ambulance.

Kyrie was at his side, holding his hand. He could feel her lips brushing against his knuckles and tears dripping from her eyes, falling on his skin.

In the padded cell, Jim was still singing his morbid little song. "I'm laughing, I'm crying..." He was kneeling down beside Sherlock.

His convulsions had stopped, there was just an occasional twitch now. So hard to keep his eyes open. So hard to... focus... It would be so much easier... to just... stop fighting... and sleep.

"... Sherlock is dying..."

His mind managed to register the faint sound of his shirt being ripped open and an oxygen mask being strapped to his face.

"Sherlock... We're losing you. Sherlock? Please, don't leave me."

He managed to crack his eyes open, just a little but he was back in the padded cell.

Jim was leaning forward as far as his chain allowed him, breathing heavily into Sherlock's face.

"Come on, Sherlock," Jim said quietly, spit dribbling from his mouth, dripping on Sherlock's face.

"Just _die_ , why can't you?" Jim asked him as he laid himself down on his side, putting his face close to Sherlock's head.

"One little push, and off you pop."

He could actually hear the monotonous tone of the flatline. He realised... he was indeed dying. The surgeons would be trying of course... They would try and stabilise him, insert an endotracheal tube down his throat and into his lungs perhaps... chest compressions.

At some point, they would have to recognise a lost case though. They would stop working on him. He would die. Kyrie's heart would break.

Jim was kneeling beside him, discussing his death as if it was already a done deal.

"You're gonna love being dead, Sherlock," he told him. "No-one _ever_ bothers you."

He was slowly drifting away. All he could hear was Jim droning on a bout death. And somewhere, crying. It was heartbreaking... because it was the sound of _her_ heart, breaking.

"Mrs Hudson will cry; and Mummy and Daddy will cry..."

Jim was on his feet, turning round and round on the spot until the chains stopped him. He just turned back into the other direction.

"... and The Woman will cry; your wife will cry. It's her that I worry about the most. Do you think she can handle you dying on her a second time? I don't. She'll probably jump off Bart's herself. And of course John will then cry buckets and buckets. That _wife_!"

Jim grimaced and blew out a noisy breath. "You're letting them down, Sherlock. Your wife... John Watson... they are definitely in danger."

On the floor of the cell, Sherlock abruptly opened his eyes. _No!_

Jim slowly turned his head towards him as Sherlock stared up. Jim's eyes widened when the lights around the room started to flash repeatedly.

Sherlock convulsed once. He blinked his eyes and grunted in pain. He slammed his fist against the floor in his struggle to force himself onto one elbow.

He could not allow that single tone, the flatline tone, to continue.

He raised his other arm and savagely punched the concrete floor, throwing all of his strength into that one punch.

Jim looked at him with an annoyed look on his face.

"Oh, you're not getting better, are you?" he said tetchily.

Sherlock hauled himself to his feet, staggered a bit and slumped back against the wall.

"Was it something I said, huh?" Jim asked him with a grin, but his smile quickly faded when he saw Sherlock glaring back at him in determination.

 _No. I will not die. Not today!_

Saliva dripped from his mouth as he was breathing heavily; sweat streamed down his face and he grunted with the effort... but Sherlock pushed himself off the wall, turned to the door of the cell and forced it open.

"Kyrie!" he gasped as he hurled himself through the door.

Behind him, Jim lost it. "SHERLOCK!" he screamed.

Sherlock looked up the stairs of the old building in his Mind Palace. It was a long journey up. It would be painful. It would be hard, but it was the only way back.

The tone of the flatline was still ringing in his ears.

He grimaced in pain but he was determined. He grabbed hold of the bannister at the bottom of the stairs and he hauled himself up. He grabbed the ornate woodwork with his left hand, dragged himself up and slammed his right hand down on the bannister again.

He stumbled around a turn in the flight of stairs, he leaned heavily on the bannisters and braced himself against the wall as he continued his painful ascent up the stairs. The effort tore cries of pain from his throat, but he pushed on.

He could hear how the flatline broke with a single blip.

"Kyrie!" he groaned in anguish as he continued to drag his body up the stairs. He slumped against the bannisters. Another step. He had managed another step.

His face contorted in pain and spit flew from his mouth with every groan, grunt and cry of pain. His body was trembling with the effort.

He didn't give up, even though every muscle in his body was screaming in protest. His right hand braced on the bannisters, he skidded his left hand along the wall. For a moment, he was back in Baker Street and it was the wallpaper of the living room he could feel underneath his fingertips.

He cried at the effort, he only managed to crawl by now but he kept grabbing the railings of the bannisters, using them as leverage to drag himself forward.

A piercing cry ripped from his throat as he forced his hand up one more time... he clutched at the bannister one more time... pulled himself higher... one more time.

He focussed his mind on where he wanted to be. What he wanted his future to be like.

There were flashes of violet. A radiant smile. Soft pink lips, parted slightly. She looked at him, a secretive smile hidden in the corner of her mouth as she closed a door behind her. The door of his home. 221B Baker Street.

He could no longer hear the single flatline tone. He now heard blips... blips that slowly became more regular.

Sherlock struggled to open his eyes and when he finally succeeded, her name was on his lips.

"Kyrie."

SSS

Her fingers were intertwined with his. Kyrie was resting her head on her arms she kept on the bed beside her husband as he lay unconscious in the hospital bed.

There was a drip hanging on a stand beside Sherlock's bed. His face was pale and a nasal cannula was placed in his nostrils. He looked much too fragile. Sherlock was supposed to be running through the streets of London, not lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life.

A rotary fan standing on the cabinet beside his bed, blew softly in their direction.

Kyrie was too tired to keep her eyes open. She'd been up all night. Had cried for most of it when she thought she was going to lose him... for real this time.

One of the surgeons had come out of the operating theatre at one point. The look on his face had told her she'd just become a widow. She had wept in despair and her legs had threatened to give out from right under her, when suddenly the surgeon was called back.

One blip. That one miraculous blip that had led to another. And another.

When she'd finally been allowed to see him, to stay with him, she refused to budge from his side and kept a vigilant eye on him all through the night. Every time she threatened to doze off, her head would snap up again and she'd frantically check his body to see if he was still breathing. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest, that assured her he was still with her, had the ability to calm her down.

Now, she was just too tired, too emotionally drained to be able to win the struggle to stay awake. Her eyes drifted closed and she couldn't open them again. She drifted off into a dreamless sleep. As she drifted away, she was vaguely aware of soft whisperings and murmurings.

SSS

There was an incessant rustling sound permeating his brain, it didn't allow him to go back to sleep. Sherlock slowly lifted his head from his pillow and blinked open his eyes, sighing tiredly.

He was greeted with the frontline of a newspaper. It was the headline of the Daily Express that read, 'SHAG-A-LOT HOLMES' with the strapline saying, 'Sherlock is as red blooded as they come, claims best friend of his wife.'

Another newspaper, The Daily Mirror... Sherlock raised his eyebrows when he read the headline. '7 TIMES A NIGHT IN BAKER STREET'.

"Seven times a night? Good Lord, where-ever do I find the stamina?" he said dryly.

He saw a flash of another front page 'He makes her wear the hat' before the newspapers were quickly put down.

"Sherlock! You're awake!" It was Janine.

He frowned. Hm... this wasn't right. Where was... He noticed something tickling against his hand. He tried to look down, but it was quite painful. He smiled anyway. Seemed that his wife was sound asleep, sitting right at his side, her head resting on her arms, a few of her golden locks draped over his wrist.

He pressed a button on a remote on the bed. The top of his bed started to rise, pushing him into more of a sitting position.

"Poor thing," Janine said with a worried look on her face. Sherlock managed a small smile when he saw she was looking at Kyrie. "You know she's been at your side the moment you were brought in? She'd only leave for quick bathroom breaks."

"That was a bit pointless," Sherlock remarked. "Her presence or absence would not have affected my healing process at all. She should have taken better care of herself."

"Stop being such an arse all the time," Janine scolded him. "It's not about that, isn't it? It's about making sure you are all right, alive and well."

"I don't like hospitals," he said, as if that should explain all. "What the hell's all that anyway?"

"Oh, these?" Janine asked, glancing at the papers. "Just a bit of distraction. Kyrie didn't want Magnussen getting attacked in his private flat to become big news. And darling, the only thing around here that can cause a bigger splash is _you_. Since I'm likely to lose my job, Kyrie was kind enough to allow me to um... spin a few stories."

"Seven times a night though?" he asked her, raising his brows.

She grinned at him. "Just some wishful thinking, I guess, for my friend. I'm buying a cottage by the way. I made a lot of money out of you two."

Sherlock lifted up one of the other papers and looked at it.

"I would have done it for free, but with everything that went down... the fact I'm more than likely to lose my position... It does help. Even your brother pitched in you know?"

Sherlock lifted his eyes at her. "Mycroft?"

"Hm-mm. Kyrie threatened him of course. Something about her singing 'Do you hear the people sing' over and over and over again until he'd want to off himself."

He frowned at the words. They seemed familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on hit. He shook his head a bit and looked back at the papers.

"You didn't give these stories to Magnussen, did you?" he asked, just a bit tired.

"God, no – one of his rivals. He was spittin'!"

Sherlock grunted in pain but managed to smile a little. "How are you?" he asked her. "You got clobbered on the head pretty good."

"Ah, I'm fine," she said with a smile. "I didn't get shot."

"True. So, where's the cottage?"

"West Sussex."

"Hmm, nice."

"It's gorgeous. There's beehives, but I'm getting rid of those."

"Don't do that," he said with a light frown. "Bees are fascinating. I can imagine myself keeping bees when I retire."

"You mean 'if' in your case. Not sure if Kyrie would be too happy about that, but knowing her... she can't say no to you anyway. Don't you go misusing that little fact though or you'll have me to deal with!"

"I'll keep that in mind." He managed a tired smile at her.

"The cottage is pretty close to where Jonathan Creek lives, actually. I'm sure Kathryn will be thrilled about that. He lives in a mill."

She grinned when she noticed the look on his face. "Ah, you don't know about him yet, do you? Funny story that... You should ask your wife."

He tried to push himself higher on the bed, but gasped with pain, disturbing Kyrie in her slumber.

"Are you in a lot of pain? Can I get you something?"

"No, I'm good," Sherlock said. He reached across to the machine regulating the morphine flow and pushed a button to release a dose of morphine into the drip in his arm.

"Dream come true for you, this place. They actually attach the drugs _to_ you!" Janine said with a quip.

"Not good for working."

She gave him a look of pity. "Oh, I'm sorry... You won't be working for a while, Sherl."

He sighed softly, allowing his eyes to close a little.

"You and Kyrie should look me up sometime, when I'm settled in Sussex," she said.

"We just might, if you keep those bees around," he said, trying to smile.

She raised her brows at him. "You want me to keep them for you?"

He shrugged a bit.

"Anyway, I got to go." She walked over and kissed him on his forehead before she gently wiped the lipstick from his skin with her thumb. "I'm not supposed to keep you talking."

Sherlock contemplated this odd intimate gesture as she reached down to pick up her handbag.

"Tell Sleeping Beauty here I've kept you company for a bit." She walked to the door and then turned back.

"Just one thing."

He looked across to her.

"You treat her well. Kyrie... She's... she's one of a kind and I'm not entirely sure you deserve her. I can tell that you make her happy though, really happy. So, keep it that way?"

Janine smiled at him and opened the door. She looked back one last time. "I'll give your love to John and Mary and... I hope to see you and Kyrie in Sussex some time. Bye Sherlock Holmes. It was a real pleasure."

He stared at the closed door for a few moments, before lowering his gaze to see that Kyrie was still sleeping, clutching at his hand. He gently pulled back his hand and rested it at the top of her head. She muttered something unintelligent in her sleep.

He closed his eyes for a moment. He had work to do. Not a bullet... Not a hospital could keep him from doing that.


	66. I thought we were friends

**A/N We are now reaching my favourite parts in this episode, well, after this chapter that is. For now, Sherlock and Kyrie meet up with Mary...**

 **Artemis7448 Yes, I'm most certainly writing 'The Abominable Bride', just finishing it up to be in fact. I did start further into the episode, so when the chapter is really done, I'm going to go back and see if I can add more earlier episode stuff. I doubt I will add the entire beginning because Kyrie will not be in that plot line. Also... I kind of made a huge change in that episode!**

 **DreamonAlina I know that in the real ep, Sherlock is fighting to get back to save John and Mary, but 'my' version of Sherlock has someone else to fight for. That's also the reason why he whispered 'Kyrie' and not 'Mary' when he woke up. As always, I'm really happy you like my story so much! Enjoy this chapter!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Well, you know what they say... 'Third time's a charm'! I'm glad your review made it through because they always make me happy and smile. I'm glad you lie/approve the changes I made in the storyline to fit my own needs. And I got warm and fuzzy when you said you liked the previous chapter even more now you know that 'The Lady' is actually Kyrie.**

 **Thewickedprincess Yes, that telegram that Sherlock read at the wedding, from CAM, was indeed from Magnussen. The mention of her 'family' (the other A.G.R.A. members) was to let her know that he _knows_. It was his way to get her under his control, to ultimately get Mycroft under his control.**

 **Deschperado Thank you :) Sherlock figured that 'The Woman' owes him since her interference was the reason he almost never reached this new level with Kyrie. And I think someone got excited when Sherlock let's Kyrie know he wants the marriage to be real. How far are you now?**

 **Kuppcake. Spa? Oh she would love it, but, as we delve straight into 'The Abominable Bride' shit really hits the fan, so, no spa day for her. That will have to wait!**

SSS

Sherlock turned back to the machine that regulated the morphine drip and pushed the button to lower the dosage. He grunted in pain as the awkward movement pulled at his wound. The dosage dropped to a lower level and he released the button with a tired sigh. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again he was in the wooden door-lined corridor of his Mind Palace.

" _You don't tell him. You don't tell John."_

He looked along the corridor and there was Mary, standing just a few yards away. She was looking intently at him, wearing the dress she'd had on when he first met her on the night of his return.

Her hair was styled the way it had been that particular night. She was holding her hands folded demurely in front of her, but the calculated look in her eyes belied her posture.

Sherlock started to walk towards hers. He was trying to deduce why he'd seen she was a liar, but, right now... all he could deduce about her was the fact that she _was_ a liar.

"So..." Sherlock told her softly. Her eyes never left his and she didn't look bothered by his intense gaze as he circled around her.

"... You're Mary Watson. Who _are_ you?"

When he came back around her, he turned to face her again. She cocked her head to the side, but provided him with no answers.

He turned away from her and walked down the corridor. "Mary Watson," he whispered. He stopped to turn and look at her again.

They were back in Magnussen's flat. Mary's black-gloved hand pulled the trigger on the pistol and he could see the shell fly out of the top in slow motion.

In his hospital bed, he had his fingers steepled together on his chest. He still had his eyes closed, deep in thought. He lowered his hands as the sound of the gunshot echoed in his ears. He sighed, raised his head and tiredly opened his eyes.

When he did, he found himself looking into the worried, but relieved looking eyes of Kyrie.

"You're awake," she said. He smiled when he noticed her cheeks flushing for stating the obvious.

"So are you," he replied.

She intertwined her fingers with his. "You don't belong in a hospital bed," she told him softly.

"Neither do you."

"Can you at least _try_ not getting shot again?" she asked. "It's not good for your health, but it's not exactly good for mine either."

He chuckled a bit, but the effort made him grimace in pain. "Okay, let's see if I can get this straight... no jumping off buildings and not getting shot. That about it?"

"So far. I just have to mind myself to not wander into very cold spaces. Maybe I should get myself hit by a car so we can even up the list again."

"Don't you dare!" he said with a half-smile, "It's not funny."

Kyrie bit her lip when she noticed the warm fondness in his eyes.

"Why, Mr Holmes, I never knew you cared," she said with a cheeky grin.

He furrowed his brows at her. "Of course I do!" he said, a bit offended. "If I didn't I would have started a divorce the moment I returned!"

"Gee, you certainly know how to make a girl feel special," Kyrie said, giving him a look.

"Shush, you know what I mean." Sherlock then smiled a bit sheepishly at her.

"Don't do this to me again, Holmes," she warned him quietly. "I almost lost you."

He put his hand against her cheek and gently grazed her lip with his thumb.

"You think..." he hesitated as he looked up into her face. He didn't like having to do this. "You think you can get me something to drink? Feeling a bit parched here."

"Yeah, sure. Of course! Hot, cold?"

He smiled at her. "Cold water would be nice."

SSS

Kyrie was walking back up the stairs carrying a large cup with cool water and a cup of tea for herself.

She was suddenly caught up by John and Lestrade.

"Kyrie!" Greg greeted her. "Is he up? Has he said anything yet?"

"Nice to see you too, Greg!" she remarked a bit dryly.

He had the decency to look a bit awkward. "Sorry, I just... want to find out who did this, as soon as possible."

Kyrie nodded at him. "I know, we haven't talked about it yet. Somehow that wasn't the first thing I had on my mind when he woke up."

John chuckled. "Dunno how much sense you'll get out of him, Greg. He's drugged up, so he'll pretty much be babbling."

Kyrie laughed and then looked over when she saw Greg fidgeting with his phone.

"Oh, they won't let you use that in here, you know," John told him, looking over at Greg.

"No, I'm not gonna use the phone. I just wanna take a video."

"Don't make me warn you, Greg," Kyrie told him with a slightly warning tone.

Greg looked over at her in surprise. John smirked at him. "Better watch it, she can get really nasty if you even look at him wrong."

"She wasn't always... like _this_ , was she?" he asked, giving her a curious glance.

"Recent development."

Greg blinked his eyes. "But..."

"Guys, you do realise I'm still here and I can actually hear what you guys are saying?" Kyrie reminded them.

Greg and John grinned at each other and Greg started to chuckle. Since Kyrie had her hands full, John was the one who pushed open the door to Sherlock's room. They went inside and the first thing Kyrie noticed, was that the lights were turned off. The second thing she noticed, was that Sherlock was not in bed.

John looked around the room. The moment he looked at the window, Kyrie noticed a look of shock flash across his face. She walked over to him and then saw what he saw... The window blind had been pulled up and the window was open.

She released the two cups she was holding.

"Oh, fuck!" John cried out.

The two cups collided with the floor, sending hot and cold liquid everywhere.

They stared at the window. John sighed and exchanged a brief look with Greg, before he pulled Kyrie in for a hug.

SSS

John called his wife to tell her to not wait up for him because Sherlock Holmes had decided to play 'hide and seek' again.

"Who the fuck knows? Try finding Sherlock in London," he told her, causing Kyrie to cast him a worried look.

The three of them quickly walked out from the hospital. They decided to split up and ask several people about his known hideout places. Knowing Sherlock, he'd have several and he'd make sure that no one knew about them all. Greg was on his phone, giving his subordinates instructions.

"He's got three known bolt holes; Parliament Hill, Camden Lock and Dagmar Court."

Kyrie went to Mycroft for help.

"Five known bolt holes," he told her while he was busy looking down at a satellite map on his computer. A message flashed at the top right corner of the map...

TARGET LOCATED. TRACKING...

A location point on the map was highlighted, somewhere in Poland.

"There's the blind greenhouse in Kew Gardens and the leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery," he continued while keeping his eyes on his computer screen.

"Thank you, My," Kyrie said and she pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I know you're busy."

Before she left, Mycroft stopped her. "Good luck, sister dear," he said, before he resumed his work.

Lestrade paid a visit to Molly who told him she just had the spare bedroom. And with spare bedroom she actually meant her _own_ bedroom because Sherlock 'needed the space'. Kyrie frowned when she learned about that and made a mental note to confront him about this.

John asked Mrs Hudson but she had nothing really useful to say. Unless you'd consider her claim he liked to hide behind the clock face of Big Ben to be true. In that case, she _had_ something useful to say.

With all this new information, they reconvened at 221B.

"He knew who shot him," John said.

Kyrie, Greg and Mrs Hudson looked back round at him. He was pointing at his chest. "The bullet wound was here, so he was facing whoever it was."

Greg walked closer to him. "So why not tell us?"

John turned around towards the window as he blew out a thoughtful breath.

"Because he's tracking them down himself..." Greg offered as an idea.

Kyrie looked from one to the other.

"Or protecting them," she ventured.

"Protecting the shooter? Why?" Greg asked.

"Well, protecting _someone_ , then." John agreed with Kyrie. "I'd like to believe he's no longer _that_ stupid to just try and go after a killer himself. He could very well be doing this to protect someone. But why would he care? He's _Sherlock_. Who would he bother protecting?"

Greg, John and Mrs Hudson turned to look at Kyrie at the same time. She raised her hands in defence. "Don't look at me, _I_ didn't shoot him!"

John chuckled at the absurdity of the suggestion. "We know, but you _are_ the first that comes to mind in terms of someone Sherlock would want to protect.

"He'd protect all of his friends, John," Kyrie reminded him. She pointed at him. "You, Mrs Hudson, Greg... Mary..."

"Well, call me if you hear anything. Don't hold out on me, John," Greg told John in a slightly threatening tone. John sat down in his chair.

" _Call_ me, okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, right," John agreed, brushing his concern away.

Greg looked round to Kyrie and Mrs Hudson. "Good night, then."

They both walked him out. "Bye Greg!"

Kyrie sighed and flopped down in Sherlock's chair.

"John? Need a cuppa?" Mrs Hudson didn't wait for his reply. She turned around to put the kettle on.

John looked over at Kyrie. "Sorry, force of habit," he said with a smile. "I guess this is your chair now."

"Don't be daft, John!" she snorted. " _That_ will always be _your_ chair. It's Mary's chair when she comes to visit. It's only my chair when it's just me and Sherlock here."

He smiled at her and his gaze fell on the small table just to the right of his chair. There were two books on it and in front of them was an ornate glass bottle, shaped like a crescent moon. He frowned, looking at it.

"John?" Kyrie asked when she noticed the look on his face. She followed his gaze and gasped when she too noticed the glass bottle. It was a woman's perfume. Claire de la Lune.

When John's phone started to ring on the dining table, Mrs Hudson – oblivious to the silence that had fallen between Kyrie and John – picked it up for him.

"This is your phone, isn't it?" She looked at the caller ID and immediately brought over the phone. "It's Sherlock, John. It's Sherlock!"

Mrs Hudson held out the phone to him, but John was still looking at Kyrie with that odd forlorn look on his face.

"John! You _have_ to answer it!"

He swallowed hard before he finally took the phone.

SSS

Sherlock was keeping an eye on Mary when he called the number of the throwaway phone he had managed to get into Mary's hands with a little help from Billy, while Kyrie kept a close eye on him.

He was pale, he was in pain... he should really still be in the hospital... but he was here instead. Somehow... For some reason... He was here to help the woman who'd stabbed her in the back. Who had betrayed her trust and friendship. Who had shot her husband, nearly killing him.

As if he was sensing her stress, Sherlock – who was leaning heavily on her for support – gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

" _Where are you?"_

Kyrie was standing so close to him, she could hear Mary's voice over the phone. She released a heavy breath.

"Can't you see me?" he asked her.

" _Well, what am I looking for?"_

"The lie – the lie of Leinster Gardens – hidden in plain sight." They both watched from across the street as Mary continued along the road outside, looking at the house fronts. She came closer to where they needed her to be.

"Hardly anyone notices. People live here for years and never see it, but if you _are_ what I think you are, it'll take you less than a minute."

Kyrie looked around Sherlock and saw how Mary slowly walked along the road.

"The houses, Mary. Look at the houses."

" _How did you know I'd come here?"_

Kyrie looked up at him, the question silent in her eyes.

"Anderson," he mouthed silently. She nodded in understanding.

"I knew you'd talk to the people no-one else would bother with," he told Mary.

She could hear Mary laugh briefly. Her lips pulled in a tight line.

" _I thought I was being clever."_

"You're _always_ clever, Mary. I was relying on that. I planted the information for you to find."

Mary slowed down her approach and looked at the front of the two adjoining houses, right across from where Kyrie and Sherlock were hiding in the shadows, looking at her.

" _Ohh,"_ she said, she sounded impressed.

"Thirty seconds," Sherlock told her.

" _What am I looking at?"_

"No door knobs, no letter box..."

Mary looked at the things Sherlock pointed out to her. "... painted windows. Twenty-three and twenty-four Leinster Gardens..."

Sherlock paused for a moment. Kyrie looked at him and saw he was in pain. He briefly put all of his weight on her so he could recollect himself. He sighed gently and nodded at her.

"... the empty houses. They were demolished years ago to make way for the London Underground, a vent for the old steam trains."

Kyrie wrapped her arm around his waist to better support him.

"Only the very front section of the house remains. It's just a façade." He drew in another deep breath before he continued. "Remind you of anyone, Mary? A façade."

At that exact moment, suddenly a picture was projected onto the front of the two houses... Three storeys high, stretching from the first floor to the third... It was a beautiful photograph of Mary, made on her wedding day. It was just a head shot, showing Mary in her headdress with the white veil surrounding her as she smiled so happily at the camera.

Mary turned around to look behind her, trying to see where the picture was being projected from.

"Sorry. I never _could_ resist a touch of drama."

Sherlock looked down at Kyrie and smiled. Kyrie briefly caressed his cheek with her free hand.

"Do come in. It's a little cramped."

" _Do you own this place?"_

"Mm. I won it in a card game with the Clarence House Cannibal," Sherlock told her. Kyrie watched how Mary disappeared through the partially open door.

"Nearly cost me my kidneys, but fortunately I had a... _straight flush_."

Sherlock quietly followed Mary, leaning on Kyrie as they went.

"Quite a gambler, that woman," he told Mary. Kyrie rolled her eyes. Of course it would be a woman! As if he knew what she was thinking, Sherlock cast her a reproaching look.

" _What do you want, Sherlock?"_

"Mary Morstan was stillborn in October 1972. Her gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetery where – five years ago – you acquired her name and date of birth and thereafter her identity."

Kyrie closed her eyes, hearing the lie, and curled into Sherlock's chest. His arm tightened around her shoulder.

"That's why you don't have 'friends' from before that date."

Kyrie thought back to that one day, not even that long ago, when she'd been so happy... They had helped Mary and John plan their wedding.

" _Need to work on your half of the church, Mary. Looking a bit thin."_ Sherlock had told her.

Mary had given him a wan little smile. _"Ah, orphan's lot. Friends – that's all I have."_

"It's an old enough technique, known to the kinds of people who can recognise a skip-code on sight..."

Sherlock had told her that, the day Gerulf had abducted Kyrie, Mary had received a text message from John's kidnapper. A message she had immediately recognised as skip-code.

"... have extraordinarily retentive memories..."

And later, the day of the wedding... She hadn't even noticed it then. It seemed so obvious now...

" _ **How**_ _can you not remember which room? You remember everything!" John cried out at him._

" _I have to delete_ _ **something**_ _!" Sherlock answered him irritably._

 _Suddenly Mary and Kyrie came swerving around the corner and they pelted up the stairs in between them, both holding up their skirts to keep from tripping over it. "Two oh seven!" Mary called over her shoulder._

" _You were very slow,"_ Mary said. Kyrie scowled at her words.

" _How_ good a shot _are_ you?" Sherlock enquired.

" _How badly do you want to find out?"_

"If I die here, my body will be found in a building with your face projected on the front of it. Even Scotland Yard could get _somewhere_ with that."

Never mind that, Kyrie thought darkly. She'd make sure she'd get her pound... paid in flesh.

"I want to know how good you are," Sherlock said. He goaded her in a soft encouraging voice. "Go on. Show me. The doctor's wife must be a _little_ bit bored by now."

Kyrie heard the single shot ring out through the night, even though most of the sound was dampened by a silencer.

They walked in through the open front door. He needed a brief moment to steady himself and used the moment to lower his phone from his ear and switch it off.

He continued on, using Kyrie for support.

"May I see?" Sherlock asked from behind Mary.

Kyrie saw how Mary leaned forward, taking a look at the shadowy figure sitting at the end of the corridor. She lowered her head. "A dummy," she scoffed a bit. "I suppose it was a fairly obvious trick," she said while taking the earpiece from her ear. She turned around, her eyes scanning the floor until she found the coin. She put her boot on top of it and slid it across the floor towards them.

She looked up and the smile dropped from her face.

"Kyrie," she breathed.

Kyrie put her foot on the coin. She carefully released her hold on Sherlock, making him seek support against the wall, as she quickly bent down to pick up the coin. It was a fifty pence coin. She moved back to Sherlock's side and curled her arm around his waist as she showed him the coin. He took the coin from her fingers and wrapped his right arm around her again so he could lean on her.

"And yet, over a distance of six feet, you failed to make a kill shot," Sherlock remarked as he held up the coin to show the hole that was shot through it.

Kyrie looked at him and knew they would have to wrap this up quickly. He looked like hell. Even using her as support, he was shaky on his feet, sweating profusely and he had a bit of trouble speaking.

"Enough to hospitalise me, not enough to kill me. That wasn't a _miss,"_ he gave her a slight smile. "That was _surgery_."

Kyrie stared at Mary until she lowered her eyes.

"I'll take the case," Sherlock suddenly told her.

" _What_ case?"

"Yours," he replied softly. Suddenly a look of anger crossed his face. "Why didn't you come to me in the first place? I could have helped you!"

"Because John can't ever know that I lied to him. It would break him and I would lose him forever – and, Sherlock, I will _never_ let that happen."

"So, you shot his best friend instead? Betrayed _your_ best friend? Aren't those your words, Mary? Because I seem to remember you telling me... that I'm your best friend."

Sherlock cast Mary a brief look before they started to turn away. Mary took a step closer to them.

"Please..." Mary pleaded with them. Sherlock leaned heavily on Kyrie's shoulders to turn back round again.

"Kyrie... Sherlock... Please understand. I just didn't want John to find out. I don't want to lose him. There is _nothing_ in this world that I would _not_ do to stop that happening."

"Yes, including betraying our friendship," Kyrie stated flatly. "You already showed us."

"Sorry, Mary..." Sherlock said as he turned away again. Kyrie helped him to get to the fuse box. He placed his hand onto one of the switches before he looked back towards Mary. "Not _that_ obvious a trick."

Sherlock flicked the switch and all the lights came on. There was a slight movement behind Mary. Kyrie watched her face fill with dread as the truth seemed to dawn on her.

"Oh," she sighed. She grew pale and she let out a shaky breath when she turned around to look along the corridor, at the dummy sitting in the wheelchair behind her.

She gasped when she saw none other than her husband sitting in the wheelchair, the medicine drip nearby, the morphine dispenser hooked up on it. They had made it look very real.

John was staring at Mary with a blank expression on his face and Kyrie's heart nearly broke for him. He stood up and smoothed down the collar of his black jacket, that he had turned up as Sherlock always did. He then stroked his hair back down, that had been ruffled up to kind of resemble Sherlock's full head of curls.

"Now talk," Sherlock advised Mary softly. "Talk and sort it out. And do it quickly."

Mary released a quivering sigh of anguish as John slowly started to walk towards her, down the small corridor. He stopped, just a few feet away. They regarded each other briefly.

"Baker Street. Now," Sherlock told them quietly but urgently. He turned away and Kyrie helped him to walk. She left the two spouses behind to fend for themselves.


	67. She wasn't supposed to be like that

**A/N Well, that happened. Wasn't able to get to the dashboard section at all yesterday! Apperantly there were more problems with FF so, I will blame those problems also for the lack of reviews -sadface- Anyway, on with the next part.**

 **So, after what happened last chapter, the episode switched to Christmas and retold what happened after the confrontation through flashbacks. It worked in the episode, but I felt it wouldn't work in my narrative, so I'm writing this as a whole without using flashbacks. Meaning, this is the chapter addressing the fall out and after that we will have the Christmas chapter.**

 **Deschperado. Still catching up with the story or were you waiting for the chapter that was supposed to be posted yesterday as well? Anyway, I'm glad you liked the conversations between Kyrie and Molly. I hope you enjoyed the other wedding chapters as well!**

 **Artemis7448 We are not too far away from The Abominable Bride. It got pretty intense. I'm starting the story in the carriage when Holmes and Watson are on their way to meet Mycroft. Though I would have loved to write from the beginning, Kyrie is not in there so it would basically just be a rehash of the script with a few internal thoughts thrown in.**

 **DreamonAlina I'm glad you liked how Sherlock used Kyrie for support. I loved writing it as it shows another facet of their relationship. What will happen next? Um, some hotness at the Holmes' first, before the shit really hits the fan.**

 **Ironlace LOL Thank you for mentioning that little line. It was actually added during the last read through and edit before posting. It um, kind of just... happened ;-)**

 **So, on with the story! Enjoy, let me know if you liked it, or let me know what you like to see happen next. If it doesn't deviate too much from the course they have already set for themselves, I will try and mix your wishes and desires in.**

SSS

Some time later, John stormed into the flat ahead of them. Mary, just a bit slower, clearly dreading the confrontation, climbed the steps in front of them. Kyrie supported Sherlock as well as she could now his body seemed on the verge of collapsing. She hoped the ambulance would arrive soon. She made the call almost the very moment Sherlock told them they'd be going back.

Sherlock placed his right hand on the bannister and used it to pull himself up a bit. He managed to hobble towards the doorway. Suddenly he stumbled and he started swaying on his feet dangerously. He threatened to topple over, taking Kyrie with him, but she was just able to keep him upright long enough so he could brace himself against the edge of the open door.

"Oh, Sherlock! Oh, good gracious, you look _terrible,_ " Mrs Hudson gasped.

"Get me some morphine from your kitchen. I've run out," Sherlock said, panting slightly.

"I don't have any morphine!" she cried out a bit indignantly.

"Then what _exactly_ is the point of you?" Sherlock asked, lashing out at her.

"Sherlock, sweetie, I know you are in pain. I know it's just the pain talking," Kyrie said while giving Mrs Hudson a pointed look. "But don't lash out at the sweet landlady okay?"

Mrs Hudson pursed her lips together and looked at the grim faces. "What _is_ going on?" she asked.

" _Bloody_ good question," John remarked, giving Sherlock a look.

Sherlock looked back at him. "The Watsons are about to have a domestic, and fairly quickly, I hope, because we've got work to do," he said, looking and _sounding_ dead on his feet.

"Oh, I have a better question," John said as he walked over towards Mary. Kyrie could only see his back but his rigid posture told her he was fuming with rage.

"Is _everyone_ I've ever met a psychopath?" He said through gritted teeth.

"With the exception of present company at my side, yes," Sherlock told him.

Mary gave a tiny nod of agreement.

"Good that we've settled that. Now, we..."

John spun around, his face twisted with rage. "SHUT UP!" he yelled. The sudden outburst made Mrs Hudson jump a little and she put one hand to her mouth.

"And _stay_ shut up, because this is _not_ funny," John continued, lowering his voice to more of a normal volume. He gave them an angry and humourless smile. "Not this time."

"I didn't say it was funny," Sherlock said.

John turned his head to look at Mary. "You," he spat out.

His voice was full of barely-controlled anger, all just bubbling right underneath the surface, waiting to erupt. When Kyrie had seen the pain and hurt twisting his features, she knew he was unravelling. He breathed heavily to calm himself enough to continue talking. "What have I ever done... hmm?... my whole life... to deserve you?"

Sherlock shifted his weight to lean against the right-hand door post. Kyrie sighed a bit in relief. Though she would have gladly supported him for as long as he would have needed her to, she'd already done so or the better part of the evening and he wasn't exactly feathery light.

She did remain close to him so he could keep one arm lightly draped around her. "Everything," Sherlock said quietly.

"Sherlock, I've told you...," John said as he turned around and walked towards them. "... shut up."

"Oh, I mean it, seriously." Sherlock explained. " _Everything_ , everything you've ever done is what you did."

John lowered his voice and sent Sherlock a dangerous look. "Sherlock, one more word and you will not need morphine."

"John!" Kyrie suddenly erupted herself. "I know you are struggling and I know you are in pain, but by God, keep talking like that and Sherlock won't be the only one in need of medical attention," she hissed at him.

Sherlock squeezed her shoulder in a comforting manner. "You were a doctor who went to war," he told John, who's eyes were fixed on him as he was breathing rapidly and deeply.

"You're a man who couldn't stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high."

A wry smile tugged at Kyrie's lips.

"That's me, by the way," Sherlock said as he lightly raised the hand he had draped over her shoulder in a little wave. "Hello."

He nodded in Mrs Hudson's direction. "Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel."

"It was my _husband's_ cartel. I was just typing."

Sherlock gave her a pointed look. " _And_ exotic dancing."

"Sherlock Holmes," she groused. "If you've been YouTubing..."

"John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle," Sherlock cut her off in a loud voice. He took in a steadying breath before he continued a bit quieter again. "You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people. So, is it truly such a surprise that the woman you've fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?"

John grimaced as if he was in pain. He pointed towards his wife at the other side of the room keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

When he spoke, Kyrie could hear his heartbreak and she could feel her own heart breaking a little with him. "But she wasn't supposed to _be_ like that," he said, his voice breaking with emotion.

Mrs Hudon gave Mary a pitying look as she lowered her head.

"She was supposed to be like _her_..." John said, his eyes drifting towards Kyrie. "I just wanted to have a little bit of what _you_ have."

Kyrie's eyes widened hearing his little admission.

He pointed back at Mary again. "Why is _she_ the way she is? _You_ live a dangerous life, _you_ are attracted to dangerous situations. But look at your wife, hmm? Kyrie is normal... sweet, caring, warm... Why isn't _she_ more... like that?"

Kyrie felt Sherlock tense up next to her, just briefly, before he relaxed again. "Because you _chose_ her to fit _your_ needs and desires. Whereas I chose Kyrie... to fit _my_ needs and desires." He admitted. "She's always been the tranquil eye of the storm in my life, ever since she came blazing into it anyway."

John stared back at him with an unreadable expression on his face. Kyrie looked up at Sherlock with wonder in her eyes at his words. He smiled slightly at her. His eyes were a bit unfocussed. They needed to get on with this. Soon.

"Easy for you to say. But tell me... Why is everything... always..." he walked towards Sherlock's armchair and gesticulated with his hands. "... MY FAULT!?" he suddenly yelled and he furiously kicked at the small table beside Sherlock's chair across the floor. Mrs Hudson jumped in fright and flailed her arms a bit.

Even Sherlock looked shocked at the outburst and he tightened his arm around Kyrie.

"Oh, the neighbours!" Mrs Hudson cried out and she hurried away.

John turned to face Mary again. He was breathing heavily.

"John, listen. Be calm and answer me," he asked John in a quiet voice. "What _is_ she?" His voice was slow and deliberate while he gave him a pointed look.

"My lying wife?" John spat, looking at her.

"No. What is she?"

"Then the woman who's carrying my child who has lied to me since the day I met her?"

Mary gazed at him, she didn't flinch as he threw his grief in her face.

"No. Not in this flat; not in this room. Right here, right now, what _is_ she?"

Suddenly Kyrie understood. She wrapped her arm tightly around Sherlock's waist as he settled his weight back on her again.

Kyrie could see John's reflection in the window. He seemed to understand as well as he glared at his wife with a humourless smile on his face. After a long moment he sniffed harshly. "Okay," he said and he briefly cast Sherlock a look before he turned back to Mary. "Your way."

He gave her a brief look before he turned the upper half of his body to look back at Sherlock. "Always _your_ way."

John stepped away, cleared his throat and picked up one of the dining chairs and put it down so it faced the two armchairs and the fireplace. He looked expectantly at Mary and gestured at the chair.

"Sit," he ordered her.

"Why?"

"Because that's where they sit," John told her in a tight, angry whisper. "The people who come in here with their stories. Th-the clients. That's all you are now, Mary. You're a client. This is where you sit and talk..."

He gestured first to the dining chair and then towards the armchairs. "... and this is where we sit and listen, then we decide if we want you or not."

He sniffed, cleared his throat and walked over to his chair and sat down. Without looking at her, he adjusted the cushion behind his back. After a moment, Sherlock nodded at Kyrie and she helped him walk forward towards his armchair.

Sherlock paused a moment. He seemed to share a brief look of understanding with Mary before he warily, with Kyrie's help, lowered his body into his armchair.

With clients, Kyrie would usually either make herself scarce or relocate to the sofa. Now, she refused to budge. She sat on the armrest and lightly placed her hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

She tried to keep an impassive look on her face as Mary walked between her boys and sat down on the dining chair. She slipped the shoulder bag down her arm and carefully set it onto the floor beside her.

Mary quickly put a pen drive onto the table at the side of John's chair and just as quickly she withdrew her hand, not meeting John's eyes, or Kyrie's... Only Sherlock's.

Sherlock looked at it, more specifically at the letters on it. He grimaced in pain. Kyrie tried to sooth him by gently threading her fingers through his curls. There was little else she could do. She prayed the ambulance would hurry up already.

"A.G.R.A. What's that?" Sherlock asked.

"Er..." she gave John a hesitant look. "My initials," she finally said.

John grimaced and looked away. So did Kyrie, unable to look at her former best friend.

"Everything about who I was is on there." She suddenly lifted her eyes at John. "If you love me, don't read it in front of me."

"Why?" John asked dispassionate.

Mary took a deep breath. "Because you won't love me when you've finished and I don't want to see that happen."

When a teardrop fell on her hand, Kyrie realised she was crying.

Mary looked down and John quickly snatched the drive from the table with a loud sigh. He cast a brief glance in Sherlock's direction before he shoved the pen drive into his trouser pocket. He sniffed a bit before he pulled himself into a higher sitting position in his chair.

"How much d'you know already?"

"By your skill set, you are – or _were_ – an intelligence agent," Sherlock said, in a voice that seemed to have lost all volume. "Your accent is currently English but I suspect you are not. You're on the run from something. You've used your skills to disappear..."

John shook his head. Clearly he had as much trouble believing what he was hearing as Kyrie, who quickly wiped at her eyes.

"Magnussen knows your secret, which is why you were going to kill him and I assume you befriended Janine..." he grimaced in pain and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"... in order to get close to him. Or is that why you befriended Kyrie?"

"No, that was real, I swear," Mary said, still not meeting Kyrie's eyes. "Janine... I picked Janine to get close to Magnussen. She'd already replaced Kyrie as his PA anyway. And... your friendship... it was something I just wanted for me," Mary said with a little sniff.

"The stuff Magnussen has on me, I would go to prison for the rest of my life," Mary continued softly.

"So, you were just gonna kill him," John said.

"People like Magnussen _should_ be killed. That's why there are people like me," Mary told him with a fierce look.

John punched the arm of his chair. "Perfect!" he said. "So, that's what you were? An assassin?" He briefly raised his eyes towards Sherlock before he looked back at her. "How could I _not_ see that?"

"You _did_ see that," she countered, while she met his slightly murderous gaze unflinchingly. "... and you married me." Mary paused and nodded in Sherlock's direction. "Because he's right. It's what you like," she finished softly.

Sherlock looked away a little. Either uncomfortable with her statement or not happy with the fact he was right.

"I didn't," Kyrie said softly. For the first time she raised her eyes to meet those of the woman she'd believed was her friend. "I didn't see it," she clarified.

Mary smiled sadly at her. "Oh, Kyrie... Yes, you did. Look at you... _'_ The tranquil eye of the storm'in Sherlock's life. You married and fell in love with a sociopath who..." she cast a brief look in Sherlock's direction. "...who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high, that was it, right?"

Sherlock nodded his head slowly.

"And his best friend is a doctor who went to war and never fully returned. And you cared for them. Loved them. Because they were broken, like me. And you loved me. Because that is what you _do_. Like John is attracted to dangerous people, you care for people who believe themselves to be beyond redemption..." She sighed and paused for a brief moment. "And you make them feel better, even if it's just briefly."

Kyrie swallowed a painful lump away and her eyes were blurry with tears. In a rare gesture of support, she felt Sherlock's hand on her back, softly stroking her.

"So... _Mary_..." Sherlock said, his face briefly contorting in pain. "... any documents that Magnussen has concerning yourself, you want.. extracted and returned." Sherlock talked in a slow and deliberate way.

"Why would you help me?" she asked.

"Because... you saved my life," he stated.

Kyrie's dropped mouth open in surprise.

"Sor-sorry, what?" John asked in shock.

"She nearly killed you!" Kyrie cried out.

Sherlock raised his free hand to calm them down and he looked at Mary.

"When I happened on you and Magnussen..." Sherlock struggled talking and he had trouble breathing. Kyrie cast him a worried look. "... you had a problem. More specifically, you had a witness. The solution, of course, was simple. Kill us both and leave."

Kyrie gasped as she briefly imagined how things could have played out. She saw how Mary put a bullet right between his eyes and, as his body toppled backwards, Mary swiftly turned and shot Magnussen, to finish the job. She shook her head to get rid of the macabre vision.

"However, sentiment got the better of you. One precisely-calculated shot to incapacitate me... in the hope that it would bide you more time to negotiate my silence. Also, you really did not want to kill your husband's best friend, or, for that matter, the husband of _your_ best friend."

Kyrie cast a curious glance in Mary's direction.

"Of course, you couldn't shoot Magnussen." Sherlock turned his head to look at John. "Not on the night that both of us broke into the building. Your own husband would be implicated, become a suspect and face what... a minimum of 15 years? 30? You'd rather place your fate in Magnussen's hands than risk that, so... you gave him a good old wallop across the head. You calculated... that Magnussen... would use the fact of your involvement rather than sharing the information with the police... as is his M.O. ," Sherlock panted a bit, really struggling with his breathing now.

"... and then you left the way you came." Sherlock was looking at Mary, who carefully raised her eyes to meet his. "Have I missed anything?"

"How did she save your life?" John asked.

"She phoned the ambulance," Sherlock explained.

" _I_ phoned the ambulance," John disagreed.

"She phoned first."

Kyrie looked up when she could finally hear the sound of approaching sirens.

"You didn't find me for another five minutes, John. Left to you, I would have died. The average arrival time for a London ambulance is..." Sherlock lifted his hand to look at his watch. He blinked his blurry eyes.

John and Mary looked up when two paramedics suddenly burst into the room.

"Did somebody call an ambulance?"

John got up from his chair and looked at them in confusion.

"... eight minutes," Sherlock finished his sentence.

"I did," Kyrie said looking at the paramedics. "My husband was shot last week and he really shouldn't have released himself from the hospital. I hope you brought morphine as I asked, he's in a lot of pain."

Sherlock looked at her gratefully as he held his left wrist with his right hand, his fingers on his pulse point. "I believe I'm bleeding internally and my pulse is very erratic," he told the paramedics. He braced his hands against the arms of his chair and pushed himself up.

"You may need to re-start... my heart... on the way." As he said those words his knees buckled and he collapsed.

"Sherlock!" Kyrie cried out as she darted forward to grab him by his upper arm. John was there in an instant to help him. Mary had moved forward as well, but there was not a lot she could do.

"You stubborn mule!" Kyrie yelled at him. She wasn't ashamed that her face was wet with tears and a snotty mess. "Why don't you _ever_ allow yourself to get some rest... or take some time to heal?"

Sherlock waved her concern away. "Boring," he panted. He groaned and grabbed John by his shoulder

"John?" Sherlock tried to get him to listen. Something that was kind of hard to do because the paramedics were anxious to do there job and Kyrie was anxious for them to do their job. But Sherlock wouldn't budge... not till he had said his little say.

"John... Magnussen is all that matters now. You can trust Mary. She saved my life."

"She shot you," he said, his lips pulled in a tight line.

Sherlock pulled a face, half-nodding in agreement. "Er, mixed messages, I grant you." His face contorted and he cried out in pain and fell back, his legs refusing to carry him any longer.

"Sherlock, for fuck's sake allow these men to do their jobs and let them FUCKING HELP YOU!" Kyrie exploded. The paramedics instantly caught him and started to lower him to the floor.

Sherlock groaned in pain. John was still holding on to him. "Got him?" he he asked the paramedics. He only released his friend from his grip when he was sure it was safe to let him go. Sherlock was losing conscious fast. He groaned and whimpered in pain. One of the paramedics quickly got an oxygen mask out.

As they were working to stabilise Sherlock, getting him ready for his return to the hospital, Kyrie noticed how Mary and John stared at each other.

Though she was nowhere near ready to forgive Mary, she had to consider the fact that Sherlock did seem to trust her AND was willing to help her. But, looking at the two spouses, she knew they had a long, long way to go.


	68. Our Second Christmas Together

**A/N**

 **So close to the ending of this episode now! And then it's straight into Abominabe Bride which I changed to my hearts content to make it fit MY story.**

 **Companion Teresa OMG What a lovely review! Thank you so much! It is SO great to see reviews by new people. I adore reviews and I'm a lucky author with a small following of faithful reviewers who make my day by reviewing each chapter I post. Still, like I said, it's great to see other reviews as well. Thank you for you kind and gushing words. It still makes my happy and giddy inside to see how much readers enjoy my story.**

 **The wickedprincess Yeah, the 'We'll see if we want you or not' is a bit... iffy... but I decided to leave that one in. Hehe I'm blushing to know you check your e-mail so many times to see if there's an update! I always rush home after work, finish up making dinner and... before I eat... I make sure to update a new chapter! I'm happy that you liked Mary's explanation about what makes Kyrie tick.**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 I totally agree, John absolutely needed someone like Mary. In fact, I think Mary is THE perfect fit for him. But, though I didn't make it very obvious (also because I never really wrote from John's POV) he's had a bit of a crush on Kyrie in the early days (the gawking, the compliments) and she kind of became an ideal for him. Now that Mary proves to be... so much different... he finds it hard to cope. But, it will all work out! Also, I'm really glad that my story helped you give a better understanding for Mary's motive to not shoot Magnussen. I was a bit nervous that my explanation would still fall short. I hope FF is kind enough to post your reviews. I missed your feedback on the previous chappie ;-)**

 **DreamonAlina That was exactly the kind of response I was hoping for. I didn't want to make it too obvious, but yeah, John did use to have a bit of a crush on Kyrie, but never acted on it because she was already taken and, though Sherlock was way slower in that department, Kyrie was pretty much in love with Sherlock from the moment they first kiss ( to fool Gerulf).**

 **Okay, enough of my rambling, on with the story. I'm pretty sure some of you have skipped this bit to just jump into the story and get to the juicy hotness. I'm right, aren't I. Just admit it ;-)**

 **SSS**

What had started as an early Christmas invitation for Sherlock and Kyrie, became something of a 'happening' at the cosy residence of Mr and Mrs Holmes Sr.

Sherlock and Kyrie were there, of course, Mycroft was there, John and Mary were there as well... and for some reason she couldn't entirely fathom, Sherlock had even invited Billy. Yes... junkie Billy.

Sherlock, Kyrie and Mycroft had been the first to arrive on Christmas Eve. John, Mary and Billy were expected to arrive on Christmas Day.

Mycroft had been a bit of an arse all through the evening. Kyrie retaliated by giving him a long hug and cuddle with lots of little kisses on his cheek and forehead. He had stammered, he had pushed, he'd been appalled. But even he couldn't hide the small smile tugging at his lips.

Of course, Mycroft had bloody revenge on his mind. When he gave Kyrie a devious little half-smile, she was immediately on her toes.

They were all sitting in the small sitting room and library. Sherlock and Kyrie were sitting on the sofa and Kyrie longed to be able to just snuggle up to him or lean her head on his shoulder or... anything. Sherlock was just sitting there with an unreadable expression on his face. No, actually... he had a rather sour expression on his face for some reason.

"I've held on to these for you, brother dear," Mycroft said with a sardonic smile. "Not sure if you still want them, considering recent developments, but er... here they are... just in case."

He reached inside the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out some papers. He threw them on the small coffee table.

Kyrie gasped when she saw what they were. They were forms to file for divorce. For a moment it felt as if she couldn't breath. When she started to feel dizzy and gasped for air, she realised she actually hadn't been breathing. She sat, frozen on the sofa.

What would Sherlock say or do now? The longer it stayed silent, the more she started to panic.

"Mikey," Mummy broke the silence, her voice low and shaking a bit. "This is _not_ something to discuss at Christmas! Now, put those away!"

Sherlock suddenly stood up and buttoned his jacket. He picked up the divorce papers and Kyrie held her breath when she saw how he stared at them, a contemplative look on his face. He then took a few steps towards the fireplace and threw them in.

"There won't be a divorce," he stated simply and returned to his seat next to Kyrie.

Mycroft's lips turned into a smile. Kyrie wasn't sure, but she could have sworn his eyes softened a bit.

"Well, Mummy, I guess you can start dreaming about those grandchildren again," he said dryly, "They might actually come true this time."

"Sherlock?" Mummy whispered.

"There wont... be... a divorce," Sherlock repeated himself carefully. He gave his mother a slightly warning look. Daddy Holmes just hummed in content and Mummy threw up her hands in defence.

"So, that is why you both put your suit cases in your old room" Mummy startled to prattle. "Oh, don't mind me. I'm just _so_ happy! I know you don't like to discuss these things, Sherlock and after this I won't say another thing but... _please_ hurry up, I would so like to meet my grandchildren before I die!"

Kyrie didn't need a mirror to know she was beet-red in the face. Sherlock got a coughing fit. Daddy hummed and Mycroft looked evil. "Well, that didn't take long, did it?" he drawled.

Sherlock quickly got to his feet. "Well, this was fun. We should do this again sometime. Preferably never. If you'll excuse us, we need to unpack..." Sherlock grabbed Kyrie's hand and dragged her along with him.

"No, Sherlock, you need to hurry up," Mycroft yelled after them. "You heard Mummy, she wants grandchildren!"

Kyrie nearly tripped over her feet at the speed Sherlock was pulling her with him.

"I'm going to kill Mycroft," he hissed.

She didn't answer him. He had stopped walking right in front of the wall where Gerulf had assaulted her. Kyrie blinked at the wall a few times. Even after living with Mummy and Daddy Holmes for so long, it had done nothing to relieve the images of that night.

Her eyes stared at the spot where she had ripped a lamp from the wall and had sent it crashing to the floor in an attempt to draw attention to what was happening.

She shivered and nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt Sherlock turn her around.

He didn't say a word. He simply placed a kiss on her forehead and then he took her hand in his again as he guided her toward his old bedroom.

When he closed the door behind them, he looked around with a bit of surprise. "Hmm, looks different from what I remember," he said as he walked over to his old wardrobe and took off his jacket.

"Oh, yeah... Sorry about that," Kyrie said, feeling slightly awkward. "Your parents let me stay in your room, back when I..."

"Right, of course," he replied absently as he started to unbutton his shirt.

Kyrie couldn't keep her eyes from him. She was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. In the months of his recovery there had not been a lot of... intimacy... between them. At first there was the danger of disturbing his wound. Later it was too painful for him to be able to properly _enjoy_. It had been at least a few weeks since they had been together.

She took a few tentative steps towards him. The moment he discarded his shirt, Kyrie gently touched the little scar on his lower chest. The wound had healed very well, but that tiny little scar would always remind her how close she'd come to losing him.

Kyrie lightly travelled her hands over his skin and enjoyed seeing his muscles jump at her touch. He'd never been extremely muscular or buff or toned. He'd always been kind of gangly and wiry. Bit on the skinny side even. Something that had been even more pronounced those first months after his return.

But Kyrie knew no other man would ever be able to evoke the response in her body the way he could.

When she looked up at him, she saw he had his eyes closed. He seemed to be rather enjoying the sensation. A lot. Kyrie could feel her cheeks grow hot when she noticed his trousers had tented.

"Don't stop," he whispered, his eyes still closed but he clearly sensed her hesitation.

Kyrie blinked at his request. He'd never been this forward in _expressing_ his wishes.

He sighed in appreciation when she continued her exploration of his body, until he hungrily captured her lips with his. He nibbled on her bottom lip, ran his tongue along it, quickly darting it between her lips in a teasing way. The moment she wanted to let her tongue dance with his, he'd already retreated again.

Suddenly he plucked one of her hands from his chest and brought it down to where he wanted to be touched. He curled his free hand around her shoulder, burying his hand in her hair, has he continued to massage himself with her hand.

He groaned at the pleasure and Kyrie marvelled at the many different expressions she saw shooting across his features. She had never touched him this way, but she had to admit; seeing him pleasuring himself using her hand – even though it was through his trousers – and seeing the effect it had on him... It made her lick her suddenly dry lips.

He briefly let go of her hand to quickly undo the button and unzip his trousers before he took her hand again and guided her through the motions that brought him the most pleasure. His eyes were closed, his lips parted slightly and he made soft grunts of pleasure as he taught her the right rhythm.

Sherlock grabbed her neck to steady himself, tiny beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He gasped at her touch and he started to sway on his feet.

"I've never..." she whispered.

"You're doing fine," he managed to rasp out and he groaned right after and Kyrie realised he was allowing her to see him lose control.

He screwed his eyes tightly shut and she saw how his muscles started to tremble. Her eyes widened when she felt a slickness that wasn't there before and he groaned in a way that told her he was pretty close...

Suddenly he pulled her hand away and in one swift motion, he slipped her dress from her shoulders and tugged it down until it landed at her feet.

"Gotta love these supple fabrics," he whispered, right before her picked her up and dropped her onto his bed.

He quickly discarded the rest of his clothes while Kyrie did the same. He crawled right next to her and whispered in her ear. "I know the cat is out of the bag, so to speak, but I'd rather not give them more proof then necessary. You keep me quiet and I keep you quiet?"

Kyrie nodded at him. She then covered his mouth with her hand and he did the same with her.

She looked up at him, watched as he looked down at her. The sparse lighting played with the colours of his eyes. When he didn't move, she gave him a questioning look. He responded with a quick furrow of his brows. Apparently he wanted to know if she was ready. Kyrie rolled her eyes and looked up at him with an expression of 'What do you think?'

With the fury of a storm at sea, Sherlock instantly sprung into action and took control; his one hand was clamped over her mouth, his other hand on her hip, fingers digging into muscle and skin, as he slammed into her so hard she was sure he'd loosened a couple of back teeth. Kyrie briefly noticed his eyes rolled back as he groaned into her hand, right before she herself saw stars.

He halted instantly, hovering over her, looking at her as though he wanted to make sure she was still okay. She nodded at him and grabbed at his buttocks to urge him on.

When he plunged in again, Kyrie cried out, but the sound did not go past his hand. She wrapped her legs about his waist, locked her ankles, and hung on as he pounded into her, her back pushed deep into the mattress of his old bed.

Stroke after deep stroke, she held on, her nails biting into the skin of his back. And then she saw it. That one moment she had wanted to see so badly. The moment he let go of his control. It was beautiful.

Kyrie forgot about her own pleasure, too enraptured with what was going on with him. Her own moment was gone, but in a way... this was even better. And she knew he would make it up to her.

When he finished and gave her one last thrust before limply collapsing against her, his head on her shoulder, she was nearly crying. She never thought he'd allow her to see him at such a vulnerable moment.

She wasn't sure, but she thought she whispered, 'I love you,' at that moment. He didn't respond so it could have been her imagination. Kyrie didn't want to risk and spoil the moment, so she didn't whisper it again. If she had even whispered those words at all.

Kyrie woke after only about an hour's sleep, but she felt glorious. She also felt sweaty and in need of at least a quick wash to clean her body. She had to pry her body from under Sherlock's, lifting his sleep-heavy arms and legs from over her body before slipping out of the bed. Taking his dressing robe she'd appropriated from his suit case, she slipped it on and started to leave the room. But she turned back to stand beside the bed, looking down at him as he slept, limbs sprawled across the sheets, relaxed.

He was as odd as he was beautiful. He was aloof and put himself above others, much like his brother Mycroft tended to do. But at night, when they were alone, he'd reach out for her.

Both the Holmes brothers were as elegant as they were reserved towards others. They'd notice the difference between a suit and a _good_ suit made of good quality wool. They'd know when a person goofed and used the butter knife on the fish. They'd recognize an 'Oud Wood' Tom Ford copy from an 'Oud Wood' Tom Ford.

They were both quiet, reserved men and both of them tall, though Sherlock was the tallest of the two. He was also the handsome one in a sharp sort of way, with his unreadable eyes, sculptured cheekbones, and jaws that were almost belligerent.

The only softness in their faces was their mouths, though Kyrie knew that, in certain moments their whole faces could soften, however brief that moment was.

All in all, they were rather fierce-looking men who would allow a person to know only what they wanted a person to know about them.

When she looked down on his sleeping form, the thought how much she loved him crossed her mind again. She smiled and pressed a soft kiss to his head, before she slipped from the bedroom to clean herself.

SSS

The next morning, Christmas day, Kyrie agreed to attend the morning church service with Mummy and Daddy. They were both elated because both of their boys had refused to join them for many years now. Many congregants, who were so accustomed to see the Holmes's by themselves, cast them curious looks. After service, Mummy took great delight in introducing Kyrie as their daughter-in-law.

"I am so happy, I could cry!" Mummy said numerous times on their way back home. "I always knew you'd be good for him. I just never dared to hope that one day he would actually be able to see that for himself!"

When they arrived back home, they found the boys relaxing in the kitchen. Kyrie and Mummy immediately started working on an elaborate Christmas brunch. Kyrie made a cranberry granola, classic crumpets, fluffy omelettes with fine herbs and blueberry pancakes. Mummy prepared mouthwatering kedgeree tarts, a hearty potato and chorizo hash with eggs and scrambled egg muffins with smoked salmon and soured cream.

Daddy was very gracious in his compliments about the delicious food that was placed on the table. Mycroft even commented the dishes were 'very fine indeed'. Sherlock remained silent but he tucked in with gusto, making quite a dent in all of the food that had been prepared.

After brunch they briefly joined together in the sitting room before Mary, John and Billy were expected to arrive, to exchange their presents as a family.

Daddy Holmes received a new pair of glasses, on a chain! He also got a pair of warm slippers, a nice cardigan and a new watch.

Mummy Holmes was very happy with her own pair of warm slippers, a lovely knitted wrap and a beautiful bracelet. She looked a bit puzzled at a blank dvd.

Sherlock told her it was a recording of him playing Mary and John's waltz at their wedding and Kyrie singing the Barcarolle with Kathryn. She was elated and then embarrassed her son thoroughly by kissing him soundly on both of his cheeks.

Mycroft looked rather pleased with a quality new waistcoat, a bottle of the finest brandy, a beautiful tie pin and a pair of socks.

Sherlock managed to put a smile on his face when he got his pair of socks, a bottle of single malt Scotch whisky and a new shirt. When he opened the gift Kyrie had got him, he smiled widely when he saw the antique pocket magnifying glass that could be folded under an inset working compass. It was not for practical use of course, but when she found it, she knew she had to get it.

Kyrie felt very self-conscious when she opened her presents. She smiled at the pair of fluffy slippers and the beautiful Chinese silk wrap she got from her parents-in-law. Her eyes bulged when she opened the next gift. It was a blue box with a beautifully carved glass bottle inside. It was a bottle of Iris des Champs by Houbigant. A fragrance that had been high on her wish list but too expensive.

She flung herself around Mycroft's neck and kissed him on his cheek. "Thank you!" she whispered. Before she released him quickly because he already looked terrible awkward.

Sherlock's gift took her breath away. It was a matching pair of diamond halo earrings to go with the necklace he had already given her in Dartmoor.

"You never wear any other jewellery except for that necklace and um... your ring... Your ears seemed a bit bare."

Kyrie couldn't care less about his sensitivities that moment. She hurled herself against him, grinned at the shocked look on his face before she firmly planted her lips against his.

"Thank you, they are beautiful," she whispered reverently.

"Hmm," was all he said but he gave her a warm smile.

Kyrie immediately put the earrings in and allowed Mummy to admire the gift.

Not long after, John arrived with Billy in tow and not much longer after their arrival, Mary was there as well.

She was very polite and friendly and Kyrie could tell that Mummy and Daddy took an instant liking to her. There was a bit of an awkward moment between Mary and John, and Mary and Kyrie, but Sherlock greeted her as if nothing was amiss. He gave Kyrie a pointed look. She nodded at him.

Mummy quickly installed Mary in the sitting room where she could rest and recline her very pregnant body in a comfortable chair, curled up with a book.

Mycroft and Sherlock were sitting in the small kitchen where Kyrie and Mummy went so they could make a start for preparing the Christmas dinner together for that evening, while Daddy went outside to get a few wood logs to put on the fire to make Mary more comfortable.

Sherlock was being his contemplative self reading a newspaper. Mycroft was being a whiny kid and Billy was just... there.

Mummy had turned on the radio and they were listening to a channel that was broadcasting none-stop Christmas songs. 'Hark, the Herald Angels Sing' the current choice.

Mummy and Kyrie had done their best to bring some Christmas cheer to the small cottage. Clearly there efforts weren't appreciated by all. They had strung Christmas lights – wrapped around green foliage – along the bottom of the window and another set of lights was wrapped over the curtain rail above a window on the opposite side of the kitchen.

The lights were draped over the top of the picture and... because there was no more length and, really, no more place to go, they suddenly just dangled down a bit haphazardly towards the floor.

The kitchen table was a happy little mess. There were bowls and other crockery, there was a large plate with red paper serviettes and some cutlery on it, there was a plate with mince pies – courtesy of Mummy Holmes, a plate of ginger nuts – courtesy of Kyrie, a small iced and decorated Christmas cake – also courtesy of Mummy Holmes, and various other items.

"Oh, dear God. It's only two o'clock. It's been Christmas Day for at least a week now. How can it be only two o'clock? I'm in agony," Mycroft whined rubbing his right temple with his fingers.

Kyrie smirked. For once he was dressed a bit more casual, with his finely checked shirt, a burgundy tie and a soft green sleeveless waistcoat. In his mind, it was probably the epitome of festivity.

In his defence, Mycroft did look more festive than Sherlock, who was merely wearing one of his dark suits combined with an anthracite coloured shirt. A shirt she longed to unbutton and slip down his shoulders... Good grief... not again!

Kyrie sighed in frustration with herself. She loved spending time with her in-laws, but the cramped space gave little room for intimacy. Her cheeks flushed when she thought back to Sherlock's passionate outburst the night before when they had to be really quiet.

"Be nice, Croft," she said a bit edgier than she intended. "Unless you want me to hear..."

"... hear you sing, 'Do you hear the people sing' until I want to kill myself? The threat is wearing a bit thin, sister dear. It's losing some of it's bite."

"No, it's not. Because you know I can do it!"

Mycroft actually paled a bit at her words and Kyrie smirked at him.

Sherlock picked up The Guardian, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. His smile faded however when he looked at the frontpage bearing the headline 'Lord Smallwood suicide' and the straplines 'Shamed peer takes own life' and '63-year-old dies following letters scandal'.

He stared at the paper with a contemplative look on his face.

"Mikey, is this your laptop?" Mummy asked, looking at her eldest as she pointed down to a silver-grey laptop on the table, half-obscured by a chopping board on top of it which had several whole peeled potatoes and the peelings on it.

"On which depends the security of the free world, yes," Mycroft replied, smiling rather sarcastically at her. "... and you've got potatoes on it."

Sherlock glanced over towards them, the small little smile back on his lips.

"Well, you shouldn't leave it lying around if it's so important," Mummy scolded her son.

She reached to pick up the basket of crackers but put it down again with a frown when Mycroft gestured around the kitchen.

"Why are we doing this? We never _do_ this," Mycroft asked, sounding a bit petulant.

Mummy sighed in exasperation and leaned on the table to look at her son.

"Well, we should!" she told him. "There was always something the last couple of years. First we couldn't come over because Sherlock and Kyrie were still adjusting, and we all know that didn't end well! The year after he was on a case and then... Sherlock was gone altogether for two years. And when he finally got back, someone attacked Kyrie and... nearly took her from us," Mummy said, taking a shuddering breath.

"Now, Sherlock is finally home from hospital, there have been no other attacks and we are _all_ very happy."

Kyrie rolled her eyes when she noticed how Mycroft gave his mother an utterly insincere smile. "Am _I_ happy too? I haven't checked," he drawled.

Mummy picked up the basket again and gave him a look. "Behave, Mike."

"'Mycroft' is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end," he said.

Kyrie hit him over the side of his head causing him to look at her with a glare. "Behave _Croft_!" she said.

"You two are equally bad!" he bemoaned.

" _Do you hear the people sing? Singing the songs of angry men?"_ Kyrie started to sing from the top of her lung.

"Dear Lord!" Mycroft groaned. Even Sherlock grimaced at the sudden sound.

Billy walked over and held out a glass of punch with pieces of fruit floating in it; he offered it to Mummy.

"Mrs Holmes?"

Mummy looked round at him and took the glass from him. "Oh! Thank you, dear." She gave him a curious look. "Not absolutely sure why you're here." She took a small sip from the glass.

" _I_ invited him," Sherlock said, looking up from his newspaper. "John gave him a ride."

"I'm his protégé, Mrs 'olmes. When 'e dies, I get all his stuff, an' 'is job," Billy explained.

Both Kyrie and Mummy looked up at him, startled looks on both of their faces.

"No," Sherlock told him in a very precise tone, without taking his eyes from the newspaper.

"Oh. Well, I help out a bit," Billy amended.

"Closer," Sherlock remarked.

"If 'e _does_ get murdered or something..."

This time even Mycroft looked appalled and Kyrie could feel anger bubbling up inside of her.

Sherlock was still reading the newspaper. "Probably stop talking now," he said dryly. "If you value your health that is. One word of advise... don't let yourself be fooled by her innocent looks. She will _gladly_ plunge that knife somewhere in your body where it will no doubt cause a lot of pain and damage."

Billy turned his face to look at Kyrie. One glance at the look on her face and the knife she was holding in her hand made him get the point.

"Okay," he said.

" _Lovely_ when you bring your friends round," Mycroft drawled.

Mummy put her glass down with a quiet 'thump'. " _Stop_ it, you. Somebody's put a bullet in my boy..." She walked over towards Sherlock with the basket of crackers and briefly patted his cheek. She then turned back to look at Mycroft. "... and if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely monstrous!"

Sherlock and Kyrie gave each other a meaningful look.

Mummy, oblivious to the silent communication between her son and daugher-in-law, looked over at Kyrie. "Will you be a dear and see if Mary is comfortable? You can tell her I will have tea ready in a moment."

"Yeah, of course," she mumbled. When she walked past Sherlock, he briefly reached out and let his fingers brush against hers. She turned her face to look at him; he gave her a small encouraging smile.


	69. Here Be Dragons

**A/N Sherlock is about to confront Magnussen. But not yet. First Kyrie has a different confrontation!**

 **Deschperado The wedding chapters were so much fun to write! I kept adding more and more stuff because I didn't want that period of happiness and bliss to end. Now it's... drama, more drama and pending heartbreak. Thanks for still leaving me reviews for the chapters you've read as you get further!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Yes, things are going to be pretty emotional, because you guess correctly. Kyrie knows he's not 'just going' away. The real heartbreak comes later though...**

 **DreamonAlina The past chapters were wonderful to write. The coming chapters? Not so much. They were a pain!**

 **Thewickedprincess Hehe Kyrie is just very protective about her hubby! For the moment, everything is nice and quiet (where I am) before we have that roller coaster of disaster coming in!**

 **Anyway, enjoy this chapter!**

 **SSS**

Kyrie found Mary sitting in Daddy's armchair facing the fire. She had a blanket snugly draped over her stomach and legs as she was flicking through the pages of a book. Mary looked up with a smile, but the moment she saw Kyrie, her smile faltered. Clearly she had not expected to see Kyrie here.

"Mummy wants to know if you are comfortable enough, or if there's anything you need," Kyrie asked in a quiet tone as she sat down on the sofa.

"I'm good," Mary said with a wry smile and she studied Kyrie's face. "That's a lovely gift Sherlock gave you," she commented, looking at the earrings.

"Thank you."

Silence fell between them. Kyrie had no idea what to say to the woman she'd once considered her very best friend.

"Sooo, are we gonna talk about things, or are you going to sit there and keep staring at me?" Mary decided to force the conversation.

"You almost killed him," Kyrie said in a low voice. "He was technically dead for a few minutes."

"But he came back. He's alive. And I know... it's no excuse for the pain and fear I put you through. I just... didn't believe I had a different choice at the time."

They stared at each other. Mary looked, cautiously hopeful and... well, obviously Kyrie had no idea what she looked like. Clueless was probably a good bet. And angry. And hurt. The burning sensation she felt in her heart was spreading out towards her throat. And eyes.

"The fact that he _is_ alive, the fact that he survived the bullet wound that _you_ put in him, the fact that he's even talking to you... That is the only reason I'm here right now." Kyrie felt she needed to give Mary that information. She didn't want to get Mary's hopes up if she herself didn't know how to... deal with all this.

Mary nodded her head in understanding. "I get it," she said. "I understand. The way you feel about Sherlock... That is how I feel about John. I would have done everything to keep him from finding out."

"You would have lived a lie. You would have lied to him, every day of your life," Kyrie said, her voice rough.

"Would that really have been so bad? I just wanted a second chance at life. Being Mary Watson, it's all I wanted to be. It's the only life worth living. Because Mary had John and she had you and she had Sherlock. I never would have lived that life if I'd been... me. I didn't mean to _kill_ him, I didn't mean to _almost_ kill him. I just wanted him... out of the way for a bit, to give me chance to figure out what to do. And I made all the wrong decisions and I'm sorry."

Kyrie couldn't get the fiery lump in her throat out of the way. How could did you set about to forgive someone, who nearly robbed you of _everything_ you held dear? No matter what their intentions had been?

"Kyrie, if Sherlock can find a way to look past what happened; what I did. Can't you?" Mary asked her softly, "I've already lost John..." She didn't continue.

Kyrie felt a dull pain pulling at her heartstrings. She desperately wanted things to go back to normal, but she didn't know how to get past this. Because... besides the fact that Mary had betrayed her, she was also proof of just how emotionally _unattached_ Sherlock could be. He acted like nothing had happened. And that made her afraid, very afraid.

"I can't compartmentalise the way he does, Mary," Kyrie said quietly. "He can see the _you_ that put a bullet in him separate from the _you_ he's known as a friend. And I can't do that. I look at you and I see lies. Lies, lies, lies in every moment we spent together. In every moment I thought you were my friend."

Mary wiped at her eyes. "I know..." She started slowly, "I can never undo the things I've done and there's nothing I can say to make you think otherwise... But our friendship? That was no lie. Have you even _asked_ Sherlock why he's so willing to help me? I'm sure he's great at compartmentalising, but that's _not_ why he's doing it."

Kyrie opened her mouth to reply, but Mummy chose that moment to enter the sitting room with two steaming mugs of tea.

"There you are," she said with an easy smile. "Cup of tea. It's Camomile. I know it's not your favourite, Kyrie, but it's very soothing, very calming for the nerves. Just give it a try."

With those words Mummy disappeared back into the kitchen.

"So, you're an expert on Sherlock and his motives now?" Kyrie asked a bit tetchily.

"No. If anyone is, _you_ are," Mary replied instantly. "But, he does seem to want us to talk. Otherwise he would not have invited me here. And he's not helping me because he likes _me_ so much."

Kyrie sipped her tea and pulled a face. She still didn't like Camomile. "You think Sherlock is doing this for me and John." She stated it, she didn't ask it as a question.

"Well, if you think he's just doing it to keep the same old faces together because that appeals to his Asperger's, then you don't know him as well as I thought."

Kyrie rolled her eyes.

Mary smiled a bit, it was a sad smile. "I'm not going to make any excuses for what I've done. I was willing to sacrifice everything just so I could get John to keep loving me. And in doing so, I lost it all. I don't expect you to forgive me, so I won't ask for that. I just want you to know, even do I'm no longer your best friend, you will always be _my_ best friend. Sherlock too. If there ever comes a day you do want to talk, I'll be waiting."

Daddy entered the sitting room and went to the fire to put a few extra logs in it. Mummy also came back and gave Kyrie a questioning look. "I'm sorry dear, I completely forgot... you take sugar in your tea, don't you?"

"Not in Camomile tea, mummy," she said with a smile. "I'm good, thank you."

Daddy straightened himself up from the fire and dusted off his hands. He turned around, hands in his pockets, and smiled at Kyrie and Mary. Kyrie giggled when she noticed he was wearing his new pair of glasses on a chain around his neck. 'Like Larry Grayson'.

Mary held up the book to show them the front cover. It was called 'The Dynamics of Combustion' by author is M.L. Holmes.

"Did you write this?" Mary asked her.

"Oh, that silly old thing. You mustn't read that. Mathematics must seem _terribly_ fatuous now!"

"It was brilliant, mummy!" Kyrie disagreed with her. "I didn't understand a word of it so it was absolutely clever and brilliant."

Mummy huffed and walked over to daddy who was just standing there, gazing into space, humming quietly to himself. "Now, no humming, you! Remember dears, if he starts humming again, just give him a bit of a poke. That usually does the trick." She patted his backside affectionately.

Mary, took another drink of her tea and smiled fondly at Mummy as she left the room and closed the door.

"She's great, Kyrie," she said softly. "She's absolutely lovely."

Kyrie nodded and smiled. "Yes, that she is. And much, much more."

Daddy smiled at the both of them. "Complete flake, my wife, but happens to be a genius."

"Daddy!" Kyie told him off a bit. She didn't sound too angry, she knew he absolutely adored his wife and would move heaven and earth for her.

Mary chuckled. "She was a mathematician?" she asked.

"Gave it all up for the children," he said with a smile.

Kyrie smiled fondly at him and sipped from her mug. So did Mary.

"I could never bear to argue with her. I'm something of a moron myself. But she's..." he briefly glanced in the direction of the kitchen. "... unbelievably hot!"

Kyrie choked on her sip of tea. "Daddy! Please!"

Mary giggled. "Oh my God. You're the _sane_ one, aren't you?!"

Daddy raised his eyebrows at her. "Aren't you and Kyrie too?"

Mary looked away. She tried to keep her smile steady and drank from her tea again.

Suddenly the door to the living room opened again. When Kyrie looked up, she noticed John coming in. He briefly glanced at Mary, then Kyrie, before looking across to Daddy.

"Oh," John said, obviously awkward seeing so many people in the sitting room. Mary immediately looked down at her book and flipped it open to a random page.

"Sorry. I-I just, er..."

"Oh. Er-er, do you two need a moment?" Daddy asked him. He started to walk towards the door as he looked at John. Kyrie got up as well.

"If you don't mind," John said, gratefully.

Kyrie noticed how Daddy briefly shared a look with Mary, as if he wanted to know if she was okay with him leaving the room. After a tiny nod of her head he continued towards the door. "No, of course not. I'll-I'll go and see if I can help with... something or another. Come on, Kyrie... you can _help_ as well."

Outside the closed door, Kyrie nearly bumped into Sherlock who had just walked over had taken his coat from the pegs on the wall nearby. Daddy chuckled, steadying Kyrie before she could fall over. She gave them both a small smile before she excused herself and made her way to Sherlock's old bedroom. She needed a moment for herself.

"Those two. They all right?"

She heard how Sherlock put on his coat. "Well, you know – they've had their ups and downs."

The door opened and soon Kyrie heard nothing but silence. She quickly made her way to the bedroom.

SSS

Outside the cottage, Mycroft and Sherlock were idly wandering along the path in the front garden towards the gate. Each of them was enjoying a cigarette.

"I'm glad you've given up on the Magnussen business," Mycroft said idly.

"Are you?"

Mycroft stopped walking and looked at him. "I'm still curious, though. He's hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you... hate him?"

Sherlock turned his head to look at him. "Because he attacks people who are _different_ and preys on their secrets. So, the question is, why don't _you_ and why did you think it was a good idea to have Kyrie work for a man like that?"

"He never causes too much damage to anyone important. He's far too intelligent for that. And Kyrie was never in danger. She had a job, a distraction to keep her mind off of mourning you and she gave me valuable information. As his PA, she travelled where-ever he was travelling. And since I'm always tracking her..."

"You knew exactly where he was, at all times." Sherlock finished for him.

"Yes. He's a business-man, that's all, and occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil – not a dragon for you to slay." Mycroft took a drag on his cig.

Sherlock smiled at him and walked back to his side. "A dragon slayer. Is that what you think of me?" He turned around as he took a drag on his own cigarette. He glanced at his brother. This was rare... standing side by side with him, in front of the home where they'd spent so many years growing up together.

"No," Mycroft said with a small smile. "It's what you think of yourself. I imagine that's what Kyrie thinks of you as well. She... thinks you are quite the hero."

They both scoffed.

"Human error," Sherlock said with chuckle.

"Isn't it?" Mycroft smiled.

The door behind them opened and Mummy stepped out.

"Are you two smoking?" she asked them sternly.

They both instantly spun round to face her, both of them frantically holding their cigarettes behind their backs as they looked at her with equally guilty expressions on their faces.

"No!" Mycroft cried out at almost the same time as Sherlock said, "It was Mycroft."

She gave them a suspicious look, but eventually went back inside and shut the door.

Sherlock chuckled and felt every bit the naughty schoolboy who thought he had gotten away with being bad. He blew out a long plume of smoke in the direction of the door and smiled.

Mycroft wandered a few paces towards the door, then slowly turned back again. "I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline."

"I decline your kind offer," Sherlock instantly replied.

"I shall pass on your regrets."

"What was it?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"MI6," Mycroft replied. "They want to place you back into Eastern Europe. An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months."

Sherlock's hand stilled near his mouth, he lowered it again and gave his brother a look of surprise. "Then why don't you want me to take it?" he asked.

Mycroft turned to look at him. "It's tempting... but on balance you have more utility closer to home."

"Utility," Sherlock cried out. "How do _I_ have utility?" He took another drag on his cig.

His brother shrugged slightly. "Here be dragons," he said. His face suddenly turned sombre.

"Plus, I don't think I could... watch _Kyrie_... fall apart like that again. However you and I feel, _she_ doesn't deserve that." Mycroft took a pull on his own cigarette again, then held it up to look at it. He frowned. Then he coughed.

"This isn't agreeing with me. I'm going in." He dropped the cigarette onto the path and stomped it out. He then turned and walked towards the door.

"You need _low_ tar. You still smoke like a beginner," Sherlock scoffed.

Mycroft slowed down and stopped before he reached the door. He lingered there for a moment. "Also, your loss would break my heart," he said softly.

Sherlock choked on the drag he'd just taken and started coughing. He turned to look at his brother who still had his back turned to him.

"What the _hell_ am I supposed to say to that?!" he managed to choke out.

Mycroft turned around and gave him a half-smile. "Merry Christmas"? He suggested.

"You _hate_ Christmas.

His brother gave him a mock puzzled look. "Yes." He smiled a little. "Perhaps there was something in the punch."

"Clearly," Sherlock said, mischievously. "Go and have some more."

Mycroft turned and went up the steps, opening the door. Sherlock followed suit. There wasn't much time lift and he wanted to check... on his wife.

It didn't take long to find her in his old bed room. One look at the rigid set of her shoulders told him she was upset. He sighed. He knew he should comfort her in some way. He was, after all, her husband... no matter how lousy he was at it. Sherlock glanced at his watch. Well, it shouldn't be too bad. The drugs would kick in soon.

He walked over to her. "Are you all right?" he asked her quietly, feeling it would give her a nice opening to start talking, even though it was obvious of course that she wasn't all right.

Kyrie had her arms wrapped around her. "I'm not sure," she said softly. "I don't know what I'm thinking and I don't know what I'm feeling."

"I think you do," Sherlock told her softly. "You miss her. But you are still angry with her and you let that anger stand in the way of what you really want."

"And what would that be?"

"Your friend back," he stated simply. He could see she was on the verge of tears and he felt rather awkward. This time, he couldn't apologise because it wasn't him she was upset with. In a way, he found this situation harder because he had no control over it.

"How do I stop being angry?" she asked him.

"You just do." Probably not the answer she was looking for, but it was the only answer he had for her. If you wanted to stop being angry, you just had to stop.

She chuckled humourlessly. "I can't do what you do. I can't turn off 'feeling' as if it's nothing more than just pressing a button. You act as if she never even raised a gun at you, as if she never pulled the trigger. Doesn't it make you feel... anything?"

Then he understood the real reason she was upset. He also knew she and Mary would be fine.

"So, that's what this is really about. My ability to _feel_. You are afraid that, because I can separate my emotions from the act that Mary committed, I can separate other emotions as well, specifically... my feelings in regard of you."

Kyrie's silence told him he was right.

"I did warn you, my dear," Sherlock said in a quiet voice. "I warned you I'm not an emotional man."

"I know you did. I don't expect you to suddenly become all warm and fuzzy and talk about your feelings. I've never once asked you to change."

Sherlock didn't reply. He had no idea how to respond.

Kyrie turned around to search his eyes. When he looked down at her, he saw that – even though his wife tried to put up a brave front – she was afraid.

He thought how utterly ridiculous it was to allow one person to have so much power over your happiness. Apparently that's what love did. And, ridiculous or not, had he not felt the anxiety himself, when her eyes were icy whenever she looked at him and talked to him? Had he not felt that searing pain of loss himself, when she'd gotten so close to dying? A pain that had burned a path through his mind and soul. He'd never expected that sort of pain to be able to become so... physical.

Therefore, he wasn't sure he liked the idea of having so much influence on someone's happiness. How did you safeguard a heart? How did you keep it from breaking?

Kyrie placed her hand on his chest. She was still looking up at him. "Sherlock, I just want to know... I'm not alone in this."

He smiled at her. Now that at least was a question he could actually answer. "You're not, Kyrie. I'm still learning, but I swear... You are not alone in this."

Her lips found his and he was more than willing to oblige. He answered her kiss and drew her into his arms. She leaned heavy against him and suddenly seemed slow to respond to the movement of his lips. He noticed she swayed on her feet a bit.

"Sherlock?" she managed weakly, right before her legs gave out. He caught her in his arms and gently carried her to his bed.

"It's okay, my dear," he said as he laid her down. "You rest, go to sleep,"

"Sleep?" she muttered a bit drowsy.

"Shh." He pressed his lips against hers in a sweet kiss before her eyes drifted closed. He pulled back and looked at the worried frown on her face. He smoothed it away.

"I did not know anything about love before you came along. I'm sorry for being so slow at this, Kyrie." He pressed his forehead against hers. "You deserve better, more. So, thank you, for settling for me." Sherlock kissed her lips one more time. "Wait for me," he whispered.


	70. Appledore

**A/N Well, since the latest reviews seem to gush particularly over the ending of previous chapter, I'm addressing you all at once. Can you guys believe I nearly deleted that bit? It seemed so OOC for him, but I couldn't get him to act any other way. Thankfully, Artemis7448 thinks he's still a jerk, so... not that OOC then? I really, really don't want him to become too OOC otherwise I need to give him a kick under the arse.**

 **Thank you deschperado (who's getting closer and closer to being caught up, yay!), IronLace, Lovesagoodstory19, Thewickedprincess and Kuppcake for reviewing.**

 **I'm not lying, I'm at page 641 in my story. 297.356 words. I'm not getting paid for this. This is purely a labour of love. It has consumed most time of my day for the last... 4 months I think. The only fee is get, the only gratification... is the fact that I'm showered with love, a small following who leaves me frequent reviews and a slowly but steady growing group of followers. Since I published this story, it's been viewed 34.390 times.**

 **So, thank you, reviewers, for taking the time to leave me a review as I take the time to write this story each day. I hope more reviews will follow! As a small token of my gratitude, here is an additional chapter. Can't WAIT to read what you guys think. Who saw it coming? Please, let me know ;-)**

 **SSS**

Sherlock quickly checked Kyrie's breathing pattern and found it to be steady and relaxed. He then straightened himself and looked down at her. He turned around, made sure his collar was popped up, and bounded down the stairs two steps at a time.

Sherlock opened the door of the sitting room and peeked around the door.

"Don't drink Mary's tea," he warned John before he turned around to grab his scarf from the peg.

"Oh, or the punch!" Sherlock called over his shoulder as he walked up to his dad. He was lying on his back with his eyes closed. He briefly held his hand over his father's nose to check that he was breathing normally, like Kyrie, before he continued onwards.

John followed him into the room while Sherlock was already heading into the kitchen where he found his mother asleep in the armchair he'd occupied not long before. Mycroft was slumped on his chair, his head resting on the kitchen table... his eyes were closed.

"Sherlock?"

He held the back of his hand to his mother's nose, walked past Billy who was standing nearby and went over to the kitchen table.

John entered the kitchen and from his gait Sherlock could tell he was angry.

"Did you just drug my pregnant wife?" He demanded to know just as Sherlock checked Mycroft's breathing.

"Don't worry," Sherlock assured him. "Wiggins is an excellent chemist."

"I calculated your wife's dose meself. Won't affect the little one. I'll keep an eye on 'er," Billy told John.

Sherlock put on his scarf. "He'll monitor their recovery. It's more or less his day job."

John stared at him. "What the hell have you done?"

He looked down and contemplated the question before he gave his reply. "... A deal with the devil."

Sherlock closed his eyes and thought back to that particular day.

SSS

 _Sherlock was sitting at a small table with a red tablecloth. He had just enjoyed a nice pasta, somewhere away from the hospital. He was still wearing his hospital gown though and his morphine drip was on a stand beside him._

 _He just chewed and swallowed his last mouthful of food; penne with tomato, basil, olives and pecorino. Kyrie had made it for him. He looked down at his plate. He wasn't entirely sure why he was eating his wife's food in a restaurant._

 _He shrugged a bit and took a drink of water as someone approached his table._

" _Shouldn't you be in hospital?" It was Magnussen who directed his question at him._

" _I_ _ **am**_ _in hospital. This is the canteen."_

 _He looked up at Magnussen who looked around to take in his surroundings._

" _Is it?" he asked._

" _In my opinion, yes."_

 _Or maybe he really was in the hospital canteen after all. He gestured to the chair on the other side of the table with his fork. "Have a seat," he offered his guest._

" _Thank you," Magnussen replied._

 _Sherlock put down his fork on his plate and watched as Magnussen sat down opposite of him. "I've been thinking about you," he told the man._

" _I've been thinking about you," Magnussen shot back._

" _Really?"_

 _Sherlock reached across to the morphine control and pressed the button three times. It took a bit of effort. He then turned back to look at Magnussen. "I want to see Appledore, where you keep all the secrets, all the files, everything you've got on everyone. I want you to invite me."_

 _They locked eyes for a moment._

" _What makes you think I'd be so careless?" Magnussen asked with his soft voice._

" _Oh, I think you're a lot more 'careless' than you let on," Sherlock answered him, his voice equally soft but no less intense._

 _Magnussen leaned forward and looked him straight in the eyes. "Am I?"_

 _Sherlock clasped his hand together in front of him and leaned forward as well. "It's the dead-eye stare that gives it away."_

 _His opponent looked back at him without blinking. Sherlock unclasped his hands and slowly reached over towards Magnussen. "Except it's not dead-eyed, is it?" Sherlock continued to reach out his hand towards the other man's face, moving slow enough so there could be no misconception about what he was doing._

 _Sherlock winced a bit and sucked in a sharp pained breath. His stitches were pulling painfully. Still, he managed to take hold of Magnussen's glasses and took them of. The man's eyes briefly flickered towards his glasses as they were taken off his face, before he lifted his eyes to look at Sherlock again._

" _You're reading."_

 _He gave the man a small smile as he drew the glasses towards himself and looked down at them._

" _Portable Appledore," he snorted then looked across to Magnussen._

" _How does it work?" Sherlock asked as Magnussen looked down at the glasses. "Built-in flash drive?" He lifted the glasses towards his own face. "4G wireless?"_

 _Sherlock put them on and raised his head as he looked through the lenses. He saw... absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. He frowned. He lowered his head and slowly took off the glasses again. He looked at them, turned them around in his hands. His discovery confused him._

" _They're just ordinary spectacles," Sherlock said and immediately felt appalled for stating the obvious._

" _Yes – they are."_

 _Sherlock pulled a face and stared down at the glasses._

 _Magnussen gave him a condescending smile and then reached across himself and flicked through the leftover pasta on his plate, the pasta that Kyrie had made for him, and he unearthed a black olive. Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes from the glasses._

" _You underestimate me, Mr Holmes."_

 _Sherlock sank back in his seat, still looking at the glasses as Magnussen popped the olive into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, then licked his thumb and forefinger before he reached across and dabbed his just licked digits in Sherlock's glass of water. Sherlock didn't even blink._

 _Magnussen then flicked the water off his wet fingers onto Sherlock's plate and put his glasses back on. Sherlock slowly lowered his hands to the table, his mind racing to come to an acceptable conclusion as to why those spectacles were perfectly ordinary._

" _Impress me, then," he said quietly. "Show me Appledore."_

 _Magnussen was still chewing on the olive. "Everything's available for a price."_

 _Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet his, hearing his words._

" _Are you making me an offer?" Magnussen asked him._

" _A Christmas present," Sherlock replied._

" _And what are you giving me for Christmas, Mr Holmes?"_

" _My brother."_

 _Sherlock smiled at his opponent. He knew he had just made him an offer he couldn't resist._

SSS

"Fucking hell," John exclaimed. His words pulled Sherlock back from his memory. He reached for his gloves as John went back to the sitting room.

"Sherlock..." John called him from the other room. " _Please_ tell me you haven't just gone out of your mind."

He reached down and took the laptop from the table, pulling it from underneath one of Mycroft's hands. "I'd rather keep you guessing, he replied.

Sherlock looked up when he heard the thrumming sound of a helicopter approaching. He smiled. "Ah, there's our lift."

John was already walking down the path in front of the cottage when Sherlock caught up with him, holding his brother's laptop under his left arm and John's coat in his right hand.

John was already walking through the gate as the helicopter landed in the field in front of the cottage.

"Coming?" Sherlock asked him, coming to his side.

" _Where_?"

"D'you want your wife to be safe?"

"Yeah, of _course_ I do."

"Good. Glad to know you managed to resolve things with her, because this is going to be _incredibly_ dangerous." He drew in a breath and explained John the dangers in his quick fire way. "One false move and we'll have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom and be in prison for high treason. Magnussen is quite simply the most dangerous man we've ever encountered, and the odds are comprehensively stacked against us."

"But it's _Christmas,_ " John whined a bit.

Sherlock turned his face and smiled widely at him. "I feel the same," he said, unable to contain his giddy excitement, until he noticed John's expression. He sighed annoyed and his smile instantly faded. "Oh, you mean it's _actually_ Christmas. Did you bring your gun as I suggested?"

" _Why_ would I bring my gun to your parents' house for Christmas dinner?!"

Sherlock handed him his coat. "Is it in your coat?"

"Yes." John grabbed it and didn't seem to be in a good mood. Ah, that would change. The game was on!

"Off we go, then," he said to his friend and they started to walk towards the helicopter.

"Where are we going?"

"Appledore."

John looked sideways at Sherlock. "Did you drug Kyrie as well?"

"Of course."

"Oh, Lord."

"Mm."

SSS

They were there. Appledore. Time to bring this to a close. Sherlock knew of course the real reason why Mycroft had not wanted him to go up against Magnussen. Magnussen had him full well under this thumb. It was now time to lift that thumb.

They were seated in a large sitting room. One of the long walls was made entirely of glass and gave a splendid view over Magnussen's vast grounds. John refused to sit down though.

Magnussen lifted his glass at him. "I would offer you a drink but it's very rare and expensive." He took a sip from his drink.

Sherlock was sitting down on the sofa, just a few feet to Magnussen's right. Mycroft's laptop was on the sofa, right between the two men. He crossed his legs and looked across to the other side of the room.

"Oh, it _was_ you," he stated, when he saw the footage that was projected on a large glass wall just opposite of him. It was footage of himself, dragging John away from the bonfire. The footage was repeating on a continuous loop.

"Yes, of course," Magnussen said easily.

John glanced over his shoulder to see what they were talking about and turned back again, before doing a double-take. His mouth dropped open and he walked closer to the screen.

"Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr Holmes," Magnussen said.

"Mm." Sherlock hummed a bit.

"The drugs thing I never believed for a moment. Anyway, you wouldn't care if it was exposed, would you?"

Sherlock tilted his head, pulled a face and shrugged a bit.

"At first I thought that your lovely wife would make an excellent pressure point, but, that would get me nowhere, would it? You see, I believe _she_ is your greatest pressure point... Can you guess what your wife's greatest pressure point is?"

"Perfume?" he suggested dryly.

Of course they were each other's greatest pressure point! He thought to himself. Wasn't that the entire purpose of marriage? Maybe not of all marriages, but certainly the good ones. He blinked. Did that mean... he was actually... happily married?

He furrowed his brows. For some reason that label always only seemed to apply to everyone else. Not to them. But why not? They were married. They were happy. Were they not? Why shouldn't the label apply to them then? He smiled when the answer hit him. The label wasn't them because it was ordinary. Whatever else they were, they were absolutely _not_ ordinary.

"Very droll, Mr Holmes," Magnussen said with a tight smile. "No, I think we both know that _you_ are her greatest pressure point. Bit of a continues loop, isn't it?" He looked at the screen with a dispassionate look on his face.

"But look how you care about John Watson... Your damsel in distress and, I think, a very worthy second best pressure point."

John turned around to look at him. "You..." he slowly approached Magnussen. His voice sounded tight and furious. "You put me in a fire... for _leverage_?"

"Oh, I'd never let you burn, Doctor Watson," he said while putting his glass onto the clear glass table in front of him. He looked back up at John. "I had people standing by."

Magnussen went to stand and Sherlock gave him a thoughtful look. He could feel the hairs in his neck stand upright. Something... was off.

"I'm not a murderer... unlike your wife. And my _friend_ , he's done some unsavoury deeds as well. Not by my bidding, I assure you. "

John stared up at him, a grim expression on his face.

Measured footsteps came closer.

"Hello, Mr Holmes... Doctor Watson..."

Sherlock swallowed hard. He could feel a nerve twitch in his cheek. He slowly raised his eyes and looked into the eyes of Gerulf Schricken, staring down at him with a mocking smile on his face.


	71. Appledore's None Existing Vaults

**A/N Yay! Update time! First of, some good personal news! My youngest daughter (11, soon to become 12) has been taking violin lessons since she was about six or seven years old. Last week she took her first music theory A exam and today we learned she has passed! Grade 7,3 (equivalent to a C?). Since she panicked during the exam (it was a lot more than she'd expected) and she pretty much forgot everything (according to her) we were very surprised and I'm of course a very proud mummy. After a small performance by the beginners orchestra, we celebrated at an Italian restaurant this evening. She's also been rehearsing the Sherlock 'The Game is On' theme, but there's a very tricky bit in it with a... triplet, I think the term is, that's still very hard for her to play because she's never practised something like that. Still, she's a real trooper and determined to master it because... as you might have guessed, she too LOVES Sherlock. Both of my daughters in fact! I'M SO PROUD RIGHT NOW!**

 **Okay, sorry, really needed to get that off my chest!**

 **EllemichelleP *waves* Hi! Haha, you know I love to be evil! And, I'm really sorry (but not really sorry though because I love your responses too much), I'm not done with cliffhangers yet -insert evil grin here- Enjoy the new chapter!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 You sound so adorably like the Tenth Doctor! Whot, whot? WHOT! Haha. I'm glad I was able to throw you for a little loop. As for what happens... well, you'll find out half of it in this chapter. The rest (plus the good-bye) will be in the next chapter. Stock up on tissues!**

 **IronLace Hang on, other cliffhanger incoming!**

 **Thewickedprincess Thank you hon! Yeah, Gerulf and Magnussen... bit of an explosive combo right there!**

 **DreamonAlina Haha, enjoy this chapter. And sorry, again (though not really sorry, I'm just evil...) other cliffhanger coming up!**

 **Deschperado I loved writing those little moments. It's why they are currently my favourite chapters. My heart nearly broke for John. He wasn't talking about their kind of 'marriage' per se, more like what Sherlock had in Kyrie as a person, a quiet driving force you can depend on. If that makes sense ;-) Thanks for reviewing my story as you catch up. I really appreciate it!**

 **Okay, that's enough of me, you're here to read a story after all. So, enjoy this update!**

SSS

"Sherlock... is that?" John asked, unable to finish his question.

"Yes," he replied just a bit breathlessly.

"You bastard!" John hissed. "What the bloody hell is _he_ doing here?" He demanded to know.

"Oh, have patience. It will _all_ become clear soon enough," Gerulf said with a smirk.

"Let me explain how leverage works, Doctor Watson," Magnussen said, walking over to the glass screen.  
He slid his finger across the glass, the footage sliding along until it disappeared off to the side.

Sherlock raised his brows at the – obvious – expensive technology.

Magnussen turned back to look at them. "For those who understand these things, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well... apart from me. Sorry, old friend, I mean no offence, I'm just speaking the truth."

"None taken," Gerulf said, glaring at Sherlock with a nasty look in his eyes.

"Mycroft's pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock."

He walked back across the room to the sofa. "And Sherlock's pressure point is his wife, the lovely Kyrie Holmes. We already established that Sherlock, likewise, is _her_ greatest pressure point. A development my good friend Gerulf here was not not exactly thrilled about. But, moving on... Sherlock, fortunately, has another pressure point... his best friend, John Watson."

Magnussen went to sit down again. "John Watson's pressure point is his wife. I own John Watson's wife..." he looked round to Sherlock. "I own Mycroft. _He's_ what I'm getting for Christmas."

He held out his hand towards Sherlock. Sherlock shoved the laptop across the sofa towards him, he didn't bother to look at him. Instead, his gaze was firmly fixed on Gerulf. "It's an exchange," he reminded Magnussen. "Not a gift."

Sherlock got to his feet as Magnussen raised his eyebrows at him. _Focus, Sherlock_. He told himself sternly. _First The Vault..._ _ **Then**_ _Schricken_.

He walked a few paces forward before turning around again. Magnussen picked up the laptop. "Forgive me, but..." He paused as he held the laptop to his chest and rans his fingers over the back. "... I already seem to have it."

"It's password protected," Sherlock instantly shot back. Magnussen continued to run his fingers over the machine.

"In return for the password, you will give me any material in your possession pertaining to the woman I know as Mary Watson. And this man," he nodded in Schricken's direction. "... will be handed over to my brother. I'm certain he can find _something_ that can... stick... that will put him away so no one will ever have to see his face again."

Gerulf merely chuckled as if Sherlock had just told an amusing joke. Sherlock felt a tightness in his throat. That man was _way_ too relaxed for someone who was possibly facing imprisonment.

"Oh... O-ho..." Magnussen chuckled. "You want a lot, Mr Holmes."

"Not really. You know what I want," Sherlock disagreed.

"Appledore." He put the laptop on the sofa beside him, then looked back at Sherlock. "The secret vaults? Is that what you want?"

"I _want_ everything you've got on Mary. And I want _that_ man to disappear... left to rot in some unholy place... forever. If you didn't want him to be part of the deal, you should _not_ have invited him over. I'm afraid I have to insist."

What kind of husband would he be if he didn't grasp this golden opportunity with both hands?

Magnussen let out a short breathy laugh, shaking his head a little. He then lowered his eyes, scratched the back of his head and chuckled a moment.

Sherlock could see John's mouth twist in anger and he shot him a brief glance. Finally Magnussen stopped his annoying sniggering. He looked down at the laptop, patted it and grimaced a little. "You know, I honestly expected something good."

"Oh, I think you'll find the contents of that laptop..." Sherlock started, before Magnussen cut him off.

"... include a GPS locator. By now, your brother will have noticed the theft, and security services will be converging on this house. Having arrived they'll find top secret information in my hands..."

He reached forward and picked up his glass from the table. "... and have every justification to search my vaults. They will discover further information of this kind and I'll be imprisoned. _You_ will be exonerated, and restored to your smelly little apartment to live in with Mrs Holmes, left to solve crimes with Mr and Mrs Psychopath."

Magnussen gave John a pointed look. John held his gaze, gritting his teeth in seething anger.

He lifted his glass closer to his mouth. "Mycroft has been looking for this opportunity for a long time. He did plant your wife as my PA after all. He'll be a very, _very_ proud big brother." He drank the remaining liquid from his glass.

"The fact that you know it's going to happen isn't going to stop it," Sherlock told him a bit stiffly.

"Then why am I smiling?" Magnussen asked, giving him a small little smile.

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully.

"Ask me."

John took one step towards him. "Why are you smiling?"

"Because Sherlock Holmes has made one _enormous_ mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves..."

Magnussen turned his face to look at Sherlock again. "...and everything he holds dear." He then got to his feet. "Let me show you the Appledore vaults. You can stay here, Gerulf, this won't take long. The moment you've been waiting for will soon arrive. Have a seat will you?"

Magnussen then lead Sherlock and John across the room and through the open glass doors of a study. He proceeded towards a set of beautiful marbled wood doors. "The entrance to my vaults," he explained. "This is where I keep you all."

He pulled open the doors and slowly stepped through, looking all around him. Sherlock looked inside the room... What the hell was going on? Where were the vaults? There was nothing there but a small windowless room, painted white and brightly lit. It was certainly no more than a few feet deep.

There were no shelves, no library stacks, no filing cabinets, no nothing... except for a metal and leather low-backed executive chair.

As Magnussen slowly continued to turn around, Sherlock's eyes quickly skimmed around the whiteness, before he redirected his eyes back to Magnussen.

"Okay," John started. "So, where are the vaults, then?"

Magnussen looked at him. "Vaults? _What_ vaults? There are no vaults beneath this building." He sat down on the chair and gestured around the room. "They're all in here."

John frowned and blinked, looking confused. Sherlock however, felt as if he could no longer breathe now the awful truth started to dawn on him. His mind was buzzing with thoughts, like a thousands honey bees were buzzing around, casually stinging him.

Magnussen leaned forward and slowly raised the fingers of his right hand to touch his temple.

"The Appledore vaults are my Mind Palace. You know about Mind Palaces, don't you, Sherlock?"

He swallowed and then his lips parted slightly.

"How to store information so you never forget it – by picturing it. I just sit here, I close my eyes..." He closed his eyes as he said the words and slowly lowered his head. "... and down I go to my vaults. I can go anywhere inside my vaults... My memories."

He spoke softly as if he was there, but not really there. He was in his Mind Palace.

"I'll look at the files on Mrs Watson."

Sherlock closed his eyes and slightly shook his head. No... this couldn't be happening. His lips pulled back from his teeth in anger. _Buzz. Sting._

John stared at Magnussen as he raised both hands and flicked his fingers in front of him as if he was perusing files stored inside the drawer of a filing cabinet. He smiled humourlessly when John too seemed to catch on.

"Mmm, ah," Magnussen said softly. "This is one of my favourites." He sat back in the chair while he seemed to be looking at a file in his hands. "Oh, it's so exciting."

Sherlock looked on in horror as Magnussen pretended to turn the pages inside the file. He felt sick to his stomach.

"All those wet jobs for the CIA. Ooh! She's gone a bit... freelance now. Bad girl."

He turned another imaginary page and started to snigger. He kept reading and chuckled even more, then turned another page, still smiling. "Ah, she is so wicked," he said, lifting his right hand as if he put the closed file back into the cabinet.

"I can really see why you like her." With both hands, Magnussen pushed the imaginary drawer closed again. "You see?" he asked.

John cleared his throat. "So, there are no documents. You don't actually have anything here."

"Oh, sometimes I send out for something..." He lifted his left hand and looked down at his watch. "... if I really need it..."

Of course, like the letters! Sherlock looked away and briefly closed his eyes.

"... but mostly I just remember it all." Magnussen continued his explanation.

John shook his head. "I don't understand."

"You should have that on a T-shirt," Magnussen mocked in a condescending tone.

"You just remember it all?" John asked.

Magnussen turned his gaze towards Sherlock. "It's all about knowledge. _Everything_ is. Knowing is owning."

"But if you just _know_ it, then you don't have proof."

"Proof?" Magnussen scoffed. "What would I need proof for? I'm in news, you moron. I don't have to prove it – I just have to print it."

Sherlock could feel the bile rise in his throat. He'd done it again. He'd been so cocksure of himself. So FULL of himself because he was _the Great Sherlock Holmes_. What an utter idiot he'd been! _Buzz. Sting twice._

Magnussen raised himself from his chair and buttoned his jacket. "Speaking of news, you'll both be heavily featured tomorrow – trying to sell state secrets to me." He tutted disapprovingly, then looked at his watch again.

"What do you think, Gerulf? They should be here shortly, don't you think? Let's head outside."

"I have to say, though Kyrie dying would have been infinitely better," Gerulf said as he got up from the sofa, "Seeing _him_ arrested is the next best thing. They'll never have a private moment together again. His name will be tarnished and that will destroy her. And he gets to live with the knowledge that he's the one responsible. Poetic justice. And I am here... to watch it unfold in all of it's glory."

Sherlock could feel the blood drain from his face.

"Sherlock, do we have a plan?" John asked him quietly. But Sherlock was standing still, fixed in place. Unable to answer. Unable to move. Unable to see clearly.

"Sherlock!" John told him sternly.

He licked his lips but still didn't move. In the end, John turned around and walked away. Sherlock shut his eyes, screwed them closed, feeling despair gripping at him. _Come on, think! You are Sherlock Holmes for fuck's sake! You are letting them down. All of them. Mycroft... John... Mary... Kyrie... Oh God, Kyrie! What the hell have I done_? He staggered on his feet. His skin felt like bees had landed there to sting as well.

Magnussen walked across the sitting room to a glass door which lead out onto a patio. Sherlock watched him go outside to have a look around. The sky was darkening already. Evening was setting in.

John and Gerulf followed Magnussen out onto the patio while Sherlock still hadn't found his ability to move.

When Sherlock finally managed to get his feet to obey him, he slowly walked out onto the patio, but stopped just outside the door.

Magnussen was staring at John with an odd expression. "I just _love_ your little soldier face. I'd like to punch it."

John stared back at him, his eyes wide.

"Bring it over here a minute."

Sherlock swallowed hard when John briefly glanced over at him for help. But there was nothing he could do. He gave him a short nod, the muscles in his face painfully taut... he loathed having to allow this to happen.

"For Mary. Bring me your face."

John looked back at Magnussen who nodded in delight. Gerulf chuckled, he was obviously enjoying the discomfort his friend was causing Sherlock and John.

"Lean forward a bit and stick your face out," Magnussen ordered John.

John cleared his throat and adjusted his footing.

Magnussen smirked at him. "Please?" He leaned closer, chuckling wickedly. John locked his gaze on him while he did as he was instructed.

"Now, can I flick it?" Magnussen asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes in disbelief. It was utterly humiliating to watch his best friend being treated this way... because of his own fucking inability to get a correct read on the situation! When would he ever learn?

The things he'd done to get to this point... Thinking back on it, he even appalled himself. And now... now all of his actions, which he otherwise could have justified with the end result, had been for nothing. He'd just been an atrocious arsehole with nothing to redeem himself with. Classic Sherlock. Classic fool.

John snorted in disbelief. He lowered his head and shook it, before raising it again.

"Can I flick your face?"

John pursed his lips and raised his eyes at Magnussen again... he leaned forward. Magnussen smiled and lifted his right hand. He bent his middle finger under his thumb, moved in close to John's left cheek and then released his middle finger to flick it sharply against his cheek.

John blinked instinctively and tilted his head at the man, still holding his gaze. Magnussen flicked his cheek again, then chuckled. "I just _love_ doing this."

Magnussen looked across to Sherlock, but he averted his eyes, not wanting to see the victory and the mockery in his eyes. "I could do it all day," Magnussen said with a smile before he turned back to John.

"It works like this, John. I know who Mary hurt and killed." He flicked his cheek again. Now, Sherlock lifted his gaze and glared at Magnussen.

Magnussen, however, was too busy being a dick to notice. "I know where to find people who hate her." He flicked John's cheek again, and again. John stared back at him, his inner soldier seething at the indignity of it all, but he was tolerating it because he had no other choice.

"I know where they live; I know their phone numbers." Magnussen flicked him twice more.

"All in my Mind Palace – _all_ of it."

Sherlock could feel the heat of his hate radiate from him.

"I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down – and I _will_..."

He slightly pulled his lips away from his teeth.

"... unless you let me flick your face." Magnussen flicked him again three times. Sherlock continued to glare at him and bared his teeth in hatred and disgust.

"This is what I do to people. This is what I do to whole countries..." He flicked him one last time before he straightened up.

"... just because I _know_." Magnussen bent back down to John. "Can I do your eye now?"

John turned his head a little to look away from the vile man in front of him. And all the while Gerulf was standing there, cackling like some insane hyena.

"See if you can keep it open, hmm?"

Almost before John turned back to him, he flicked John's left eyebrow. Sherlock looked on helplessly as he saw how John's eyes instinctively flinched closed. Magnussen sniggered and flicked his eyebrow again.

"Come on. For Mary. Keep it open."

He bent his finger under his thumb again.

"Sherlock?" John asked him.

"Let him. I'm sorry," Sherlock said quietly, trying to convey how sorry he was that John was in this situation because of him.

Magnussen looked round to him for a moment, clearly savouring the power he held over the two men.

"Just... let him," Sherlock softly said to John.

Magnussen turned back to John. "Come on. Eye open."

He had a demented bemused look on his face as he flicked John's eyebrow again. Again John's eyes flinched closed for a moment before he glared at the man who just sniggered and flicked him again.

Magnussen laughed and Gerulf joined him as John's breaths became loud and harsh.

"It's difficult, isn't it?" Magnussen asked almost cheerfully. He then straightened himself up. "Janine managed it once." He gave Sherlock a pointed look. "She makes the funniest noises."

Sherlock was suddenly glad that his brother had pitched in to help secure her little cottage in West Sussex.

Gerulf erupted in laughter. He certainly took a perverted delight in this very situation.

"Why is that _reptile_ standing here, having fun? If you are expecting the government to drop by... don't you care they will arrest his ass?" John asked. "He tried to kill Sherlock's wife for fuck's sake!"

" _Tried_ being the operative word, Doctor Watson," Magnussen said. "Besides, I made sure Mycroft would find her in time. If it was left up to him and his little GPS tracking... she would have long died before the cavalry arrived."

"You did _what_?" Gerulf suddenly asked, his voice carrying a dangerous undertone.

Sherlock raised his head in interest.

"Come on, Gerulf, you know I couldn't let you kill her. As I said earlier, unlike you, I'm not a killer and I don't like being involved in a killing either. Don't worry, you'll still get your poetic revenge."

Gerulf walked closer towards Magnussen. "I wanted her _dead_ , Magnussen. You agreed to give her up to me. You had no right to interfere." He bared his teeth at his 'friend'.

Magnussen turned to face Gerulf. "No right?" he said softly. "Remember who you are talking to, my friend. I have _every_ right. I don't kill and I won't be associated with murder either. I'm not a villain. I have no evil plan. I'm a businessman, acquiring assets. You too, happen to be one of them."

"I am a what now?" Gerulf's voice gained a dangerous edge.

"I _own_ you, Gerulf. Don't mistake my _ownership_ of you for anything else."

"Nobody _owns_ me, Magnussen. Least of all you!" Gerulf spat.

"Gerulf, I do suggest we discuss this some other time. We have other matters at hand."

"Indeed we do..." Gerulf said. He slowly reached behind his waistband and pulled out a small gun.

Sherlock carefully stepped closer to John, knowing that the situation could get out of hand in a heartbeat... It probably _would_ get out of hand in a heartbeat, if the mad glint in Gerulf's eyes was anything to go by.

Too bad for Magnussen he'd not seen sooner what an unhinged, unstable, demented mad man Gerulf had become.

"Do you even know... _understand_... WHY I wanted to kill Kyrie?" Gerulf asked Magnussen.

Magnussen's eyes were locked on the small gun that was pointed right at him. "Gerulf, put that gun away. It hardly matters now. She is alive, yes. BUT a life of misery awaits her once her dear husband is arrested and tried for treason."

"Oh, but it _does_ matter... Magnussen..." Gerulf said, baring his teeth. "Because you need to understand that what will happen... happens only because of your own actions."

"You think you will shoot me?" Magnussen scoffed. "I think not."

Sherlock was now standing right next to John. John was looking at him, but Sherlock shook his head. Now was not the right moment to intervene. This... unexpected little conflict between Gerulf and Magnussen needed to play out first.

"I wanted to kill Kyrie because she stood between me and what I wanted. Granted, what I wanted was _her_... but, _she_ was also the one who prevented me from having her. No one stands in my way, Magnussen. Those who do..." he cocked his gun. "... die."

Magnussen was starting to look nervous. "Gerulf," he spoke slowly. "Don't do anything rash and impulsive. Think who's on his way over here, right now. Think about what will happen to you if you kill me."

"Oh, you think Mycroft will arrest me for killing you? I imagine I'd be doing him a favour. Besides, like you, I have a certain... immunity... The English government needs me. I could kill you ten times over and they wouldn't lift a finger. I nearly succeeded in killing Kyrie. _Where_ was the ramification? There was _none_! If only I had realised this years ago... I would have killed him..." Gerulf nodded at Sherlock with a harsh movement of his head. "... right after he said 'I do'. I'm sorry I have to do this, old friend. You really should not have stood in my way. You should have let Kyrie die."

"Gerulf!" Magnussen warned him in a low voice.

One single gunshot rang through the evening air and Magnussen's body crumpled to the ground.

Gerulf turned towards Sherlock and he was now the one staring at the barrel of a gun... again. If the situation wasn't so dangerous, he would have rolled his eyes.

"I guess I still have time to make this look like a homicide – suicide," Gerulf said. He was interrupted however by the sound of an approaching helicopter.

"Or not," Gerulf remarked dryly.

Sherlock looked up and saw the helicopter soaring over the roof while at the same time armed police marksmen ran towards the patio. The helicopter dropped down to hover some yards away, its spotlight aimed towards all three of them.

As they were buffeted by the wind from the rotors, suddenly Mycroft's voice blared out over a speaker on the helicopter.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Stand away from that man. Don't do anything foolish now... Kyrie is here with me!"

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. He then sighed. Of course, Kyrie would _never_ allow Mycroft to come here alone. She was probably a bit pissed off right now. Great.

Gerulf looked over at him.

"Here we go, Mr Holmes. Do you think I will get a medal? All I have to do, is say I managed to thwart a deal between Sherlock Holmes and Charles Augustus Magnussen. A deal wherein Sherlock was selling state secrets. It will be the word of a junkie against the word of a successful businessman."

"Just answer me one question, Gerulf Schricken," Sherlock yelled, trying to make himself heard over the noise of the hovering helicopter. "When I'm imprisoned... will that be the end of it? Will you... leave _her_ alone?"

Gerulf looked up at towards the helicopter. "Leave her alone? What a notion... I will _never_ leave her alone. There won't be a day or night she can rest easy. I will make her life a living hell. And I will savour every second of it, knowing that _you_ will be in jail and you can't do a thing to stop me. Even your big brother Mycroft... useless as a chicken wire submarine."

Sherlock nodded quietly and he looked down. Well, he had his answer. Gerulf Schricken would not stop. He was a sick deranged man who would never, ever stop.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Step away."

John looked round at him. "Sherlock, what do we do now?"

SSS

A few hours earlier...

Kyrie blinked open her eyes. Why did her limbs feel so heavy? Why was did her head feel so dizzy? She looked around and noticed a few things... Evening was setting in, she was lying in Sherlock's bed and she was alone.

Then she remembered how he'd kissed her and how she'd suddenly felt dizzy. She shot upright and gasped. She'd been drugged! Sherlock! She looked around the room, half expecting to find Sherlock's body slumped on the ground somewhere as well.

The room really was empty though.

Kyrie stood up from the bed and took a few unsteady steps. Suddenly her head shot up in fear. Mary! The baby! Oh God!

She hurried out of the room and wanted to dash down the stairs. Unfortunately, the drugs were still not completely out of her system. She missed a step and suddenly her stomach lurched as she fell sideways. Kyrie cried out in fear and brought up her arms to protect her head against the impact.

A pained scream ripped from her throat as her body slammed against a couple of steps before she was hurled against the wall near the last step of the stairs. She grunted in pain when she forced herself upright. Ow! She was going to be so sore next day! Fortunately, it didn't seem like she had any broken bones. A few sprains... well... she wouldn't rule that out.

Okay, keep moving. If she'd been drugged, the others could have been drugged as well. Kyrie hesitated between the door to the kitchen and the door to the sitting room where Mary was supposed to sit. She opted for the last and she quickly opened the door to the sitting room.

Kyrie cried out when she saw Mary's body slumped in the armchair. "Mary!" She hobbled over to her as quickly as she could. Her eyes were blurry with tears and her hand trembled when she first checked for a pulse. She sobbed in relief when she found a steady heartbeat.

"Mary!" she said a bit louder this time and she placed her hands on her protruding belly to see if she could detect movement from the baby. When she felt absolutely nothing, she started to panic, until she realised that no movement did not necessarily mean the baby was gone. It could be asleep. Like Mary.

When Mary groaned and her eyes fluttered open, Kyrie cried and laughed at the same time while pulling her best friend in for a hug. Because that was what Mary was. Her best friend. She always would be.

That did not mean she was no longer angry at her for shooting Sherlock. For nearly killing him. But Sherlock was right, she needed their help otherwise she _never_ would have done anything so extreme. They would figure this out. They had to.

"Kyrie?" Mary mumbled, looking at her bleary-eyed.

"Yeah, it's me. Are you okay?" Kyrie asked.

"I dunno. What the hell happened?"

Kyrie's smile vanished. "I was just trying to find that out myself."


	72. His First Vow

**A/N And we have arrived at the last chapter of 'His Last Vow'. After this one we delve straight into Abominable Bride. Sorry this chapter is shorter. I can't do a double update today because I need to get cracking with 'The Six Thatcher's'.**

 **Guest LOL That WOULD be awesome, Sherlock dropping a bomb on her like that and then leaving her, just to arrive back 4 minutes later. Awkward! But, this idea would completely mess up the direction of my story so... that won't happen. But I LOVE the idea!**

 **Lovesagoodtory19 Aw thank you! I showed my daughter your review and she was glowing! Your comment about bouncing in your office chair really made me laugh! And your are most welcome. I love writing this story, love getting lovely comments like yours even more. I adore 'Six Thatchers' at the moment. I think I will take it in a bit of a different direction. It will be less about the Six Thatchers (Kyrie doesn't really go along on cases), so it will be more about the stuff in between.**

 **Deschperado Ah, look who's completely caught up. Yay! Hmm, I actually thought it would be... a bit obvious to pull Gerulf back in at this point. Considering the responses I was wrong. Glad to know I can still surprise you. Also, heads up... nice little curve ball waiting just around the corner in Abominable Bride!**

 **DreamonAlina I love their friendship as well! It's so great to write. I love every moment of it. Lots more to come in 'Six Thatchers'! I'm really happy that the fun I have writing them, shines through in the actual story!**

 **Elbafo You actually made me go back and read those early chapters. It's almost as if you are talking about an entirely different story! I don't really consider myself to have a way with words (not like your story anyways!) but I'm really happy with your review and that you like my descriptions of their 'mundane' life. I suggest you find the Piangero la sorte mia version sung by Emily Klassen. Preferably the actual scene from the tv show Hannibal. Emily (though she doesn't look like Kyrie) perfectly showcases the emotion and the passion. I won't be offended btw if you don't like the opera music. It's not for everyone. I only like a few select musical pieces and those are the ones I have Kyrie sing ;-)**

 **IronLace Thank you! It always makes me really happy to you how much you enjoy reading my story. I hope you will continue to enjoy it and if ever you don't, don't hesitate to let me know!**

 **Artemis7448 LOL I noticed your review when my dogs woke me at around 3.40 am! It made me laugh so hard I had trouble getting back to sleep, so I was a bit sleep deprived at work. But who cares! Thank you!**

 **Thewickedprincess Wow, my eldest daughter likes to dabble with a synth as well. She's self taught though, she actually takes ballet class. Oh, honey... there's nothing funny about this chapter. Half way through the next episode... and at the end of the episode... those were the moments that made my head spin!**

 **Okay, enough rambling by mean. Enjoy the update! Again, sorry it's a bit shorter today!**

 **SSS**

John looked at Sherlock. "Sherlock, what do we do now?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. His mind was racing. He was already screwed. He'd been so sure Mycroft had only brought his precious laptop with him, knowing his little brother would try and take down Magnussen. Well, that plan had backfired! Now Mycroft's laptop was here and Sherlock had nothing to offer as an explanation because there were no vaults.

Sherlock grit his teeth in anger. Magnussen had beat him at his own game!

But, if he was to be imprisoned... he'd better be imprisoned for a really good reason.

Gerulf looked over his shoulder and gave Sherlock a mocking look as he casually tucked away his firearm. "Nothing! There's nothing to be done! The British government needs me, Mr Holmes. You have no idea the things I provide... for your brother. He can't afford to lose that. You will have the rare pleasure of watching your brother... doing absolutely nothing."

"Oh, been there, done that. I watched Mycroft doing nothing as I got beaten to a pulp. It's really not that exciting," he remarked dryly.

"Well, no chance for you to be a hero now. You won't be able to step in and save your wife yet again. Though, I guess you could say that Magnussen was actually the one who saved her the last time."

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, stand away from that man. Do it _now_."

Sherlock briefly looked up at the helicopter. Kyrie was in it. He smiled sadly. _I'm sorry,_ he thought to himself. He turned his head and looked at Gerulf. "Oh, _do_ your research," he said and he swiftly reached behind John, into his pocked, before he stepped away from John and walked up to Gerulf.

"I'm not a hero..." he bit out.

Gerulf turned around to look at him.

"... I'm a high-functioning sociopath." He widened his eyes and glared at the man. " _Merry_ Christmas!"

He raised John's gun and Gerulf was too slow in pulling out and raising his own.

"Do _not_ allow him to fire back on Sherlock Holmes!" Mycroft yelled frantically.

Two shots still got fired, but only one bullet hit target. At the same time several other gunshots rang out.

Gerulf's mouth gaped open in a surprised 'oh' before his bullet riddled body hit the ground. Sherlock immediately dropped the gun to the patio and turned towards the helicopter, raising his hands.

"Get away from me, John!" Sherlock told his friend as he turned to look at him. "Stay well back!"

"Oh, my God... what have you done, Sherlock!" John said, sounding quite desperate as he raised his own hands.

"Stand fire!" Mycroft frantically yelled as the police marksmen ran towards the patio, aiming their rifles at him. "Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do _not_ fire!"

Sherlock kept his hands raised as he turned to John again. "Give my love to Mary," he said. He nodded at John and gave him a small smile, seeing the anguish on his friend's face. "Tell her she's safe now. And tell..." He swallowed hard but couldn't quite get rid of the lump. "... tell Kyrie that I am sorry. I had to keep her safe, John. I had to. And I don't know if I will get a chance to tell her myself. Look after for me, will you?"

"Yeah... of course," John said, nodding his head. "I promise."

Sherlock nodded at him before he turned around and slowly lowered himself to his knees. He stared up at the helicopter. He knew he'd done something from which no-one could save him, not even his big brother. But Gerulf had been right. Mycroft's hands were tied. In all those years he'd been busy to weaken Gerulf's position, nothing had really happened. And then there was Sherlock's vow, his first vow. To have and to hold. For better for worse. Tonight, he had kept that vow.

SSS

Kyrie looked out of the window of the car as they drove along a runway to where an executive jet stood stationary on the tarmac. She reached her neck until she saw the person she was looking for. Sherlock. He was standing near the nose of the plane, together with Mycroft and some security guy.

He looked absolutely calm while she, again, was a quivering mess of nerves and tears. She had not seen him for an entire week after he'd shot Gerulf Schricken. Almost immediately after, Sherlock had been taken into custody and was thrown in solitary.

She still wasn't entirely sure how she felt about Sherlock killing Gerulf. On one hand, she understood he'd done it to protect her. On the other hand, he was now a murderer. Even if he'd taken a life before, when he was taking down Moriarty's network, she had no knowledge of such a thing. Now she did...

That entire week, Kyrie had hardly slept or eaten anything. All she could think of was Sherlock, during every hour of every day. Even at night her thoughts would not leave her alone, depriving her of sleep. She'd been worried sick. The sight, even just the smell of food, made her hurry to the bathroom to vomit. Since she could only handle little bits of food, most of the time she was only spitting out the bile from her stomach.

Kyrie looked a wreck and she knew it. This wasn't exactly how she'd wanted to say goodbye but, it couldn't be helped.

She tried to keep the tears in for his sake. He loathed overly displays of emotions after all. But how could he expect her not to be upset, now she was forced to say goodbye again? And she had no idea when she'd get to see him again. He would probably be away for a long time. Maybe even years.

Mary was the first to get out. They'd agreed that Kyrie would be the last one to say goodbye, so they could have a last moment together.

Kyrie noticed how Sherlock looked at her, over Mary's shoulder as they hugged, just as he whispered something to her. Mary nodded her head and Kyrie knew he'd just asked Mary to look after her. She sniffed.

Mary walked back towards her and wrapped her arms around her shoulders in a hug. She didn't say anything; she really didn't have to. Kyrie silently cried against her friend as she looked on how Sherlock and John said their goodbyes.

It took them a moment, but after a while Sherlock extended his hand to John. John clasped it and after a brief nod he came walking back to them. He hardly looked at Kyrie, but he quickly took her hand and squeezed it before Kyrie slowly walked up to Sherlock.

They stood there for a moment, looking awkwardly at each other. Kyrie noticed how he took in her appearance with a look of infinite sadness in his eyes.

"At least this time I get to say goodbye," Kyrie said, trying to smile.

"Mm, I'm a bit rubbish at those," Sherlock replied wryly.

"I know."

"So, John and Mary... they think they're having a girl."

"Really?" Kyrie smiled up at him.

"Yes. John doesn't want to name his daughter after me. Shame, I think it could work."

She realised what he was doing and the knowledge hit her harder than anything ever before, except maybe his death. He was avoiding to say goodbye. And the only reason Kyrie could think of, was that he didn't expect to come back. Ever. And he did not want to say it out loud.

Kyrie gasped for air and grabbed his arms. She felt faint, as the blood drained from her face. Her legs felt like wet noodles.

When she looked up at him, she saw the rigid set of his jaw. She didn't dare to look further up, too afraid to read the truth in his eyes.

"You..." She swallowed back a lump. "You are not coming back, at all, are you?"

There was a brief moment in which she could see the regret flicker across his face.

He shook his head. "The chances of me returning are... infinitesimal," he said, confirming her fears.

"So... This... this is _really_ goodbye then?" she asked in a small voice.

"'Fraid so."

"I can't..." She began to feel hysteria bubbling up inside her and she tried to repress it. She did not want to ruin her very last moments with him. "I can't say goodbye... Not to you... How am I supposed to...?" Her voice broke.

Sherlock pulled her close to him and wrapped his arms tightly around her.

"Don't do what you did last time," he whispered. "I've only be gone for a week and already you stop taking caring of yourself. Be safe, Kyrie. Live well. Be happy... _For me_. The Watsons will want to help you through this. Please, let them."

Kyrie buried her face against his shoulder and cried quietly.

"And when you meet someone else..."

She shook her head furiously.

"No, listen. Listen to me," he urged her. "When you meet someone else... Fall in love. Have children. Allow yourself to..."

He paused for a moment, no, he seemed to freeze or... drift away from her, as if he was no longer there with her. Ah, Sherlock and his reluctance to deal with emotions. Most likely he let his body go through the motions, saying rehearsed words, so he could hide in his Mind Palace, to no be confronted with the full brunt of having to say goodbye.

"Allow yourself to have the life that I couldn't give you. Because... You are..." He seemed to have trouble finishing his sentences. "You deserve so much more. I'm sorry I was too selfish to let you go..."

"Stop it," she whispered. "No more of that." Kyrie hugged herself even closer to him and raised herself on her tippy toes so she could whisper in his ear.

"I can't do all these things you ask me to. I know you probably don't want to hear this... But... considering this may be my only chance to tell you... ever... Please, just hear me out. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I love you now and I love you always. And loving you has changed me and... I _can't_ change back. No one will ever be able to take your place because you burn too bright, too vivid, to ever be eclipsed. So, please, don't ask me to love someone else, because I just can't."

She could hear him gulp and she half expected him to instantly bolt for the plane. He didn't though.

"I- I don't know how to respond to that," he admitted softly.

Kyrie pulled herself back. She didn't dare to look into his eyes so she looked at pretty much everything else. His nose, his cheeks, his lips... his chin. "You don't have to. I just didn't want you to leave without knowing. Even if you don't feel the same, I want you to go... knowing you have my love all the same."

An instant later his lips were pressed against hers. The kiss was harsh, it felt desperate and she could feel him bruising her lips, but she didn't object.

He suddenly pulled away from her and held her by her arms. He averted his eyes from hers as if he couldn't stand looking into hers. A nerve twitched in his cheek.

"I- I have to go now," he said, his voice sounding a bit rough. "I'm not... I mean, I don't..." he closed his eyes and a brief look of anger crossed his features. "Sorry, really not good at this," he mumbled. He took a deep breath. "I just want you to know, I do not regret my decisions. Back then, I mean. If I had to do it all over again, I'd still say yes. Probably a bit sooner."

And that was it. Kyrie tried to smile at him, to let him know she 'd be okay. But she couldn't. He couldn't either. He turned on his heel and marched towards the plane without looking back.

There were no regrets. Not between either of them. In a way she was almost glad what had happened that one traumatic evening years ago. If Gerulf had not become so obsessed with her, she and Sherlock would never have gotten involved. He would never have given her the time of day and she wouldn't have liked him at all.

Though she made no sound, tears were falling from her eyes as she watched him walk along the side of the plane to the steps until he climbed them to get on board. He looked over at her one last time before he went inside.

And just like that, she was standing by the car, supported by Mary as they watched the plane as it taxied along the runway. Kyrie could no longer contain her sorrow and she began to weep harshly as she watched the plane lift into the sky.

She looked on and watched the plane fly off into the distance. As the distance grew between her and the plane, she could feel her heart breaking into a million little pieces. She would never see him again. She would never hear his voice again, nor feel his touch...

That bruising kiss was the last time their lips would ever meet. No more teasing smiles, no more dry remarks, no more tantrums, no more mood swings, no more whining about the lack of ginger nuts... No more any of that.

In a brief flash, the vast emptiness of what her life would be like spread out in front of her in all of its pale and frozen glory.

Suddenly Mycroft opened the door of the car and got out. He gave the three of them a pointed look.

Mary, who still had her arms wrapped around Kyrie, turned them around to look towards him. John walked over to where Mycroft was standing, just outside of the car.

"What's happened?" he asked.

Mycroft gave him the smallest of smiles as Kyrie and Mary walked closer towards him. "It appears that Moriarty is back."

Kyrie tensed in Mary's embrace and pulled herself free. Her heart started hammering in her chest. Moriarty was dead. He couldn't be back. But Mycroft wasn't kidding. And if there was a new situation that involved Moriarty... then...

"If you'll excuse me," Mycroft said with half-smile, "I have a phone call the make. It appears... England needs Sherlock Holmes. Yet again."

Kyrie gasped and grabbed Mary's arm but Mary looked over at John. "But he's dead. I mean, you told me he was dead, Moriarty."

"Absolutely," John told her, "He blew his own brains out."

"So, how can he be back?"

John turned and looked to his right. Kyrie followed his gaze and laughed in elation when she saw the plane approaching them again. She didn't care what problem England was in right now. She only cared about one thing. Sherlock was coming back!

"Well, if he is... he'd better wrap up warm," John mumbled.

They watched as the plane came back in to land.

"There's an East Wind coming."


	73. A New Case

**A/N This author is really, really tired and about ready to go to bed. Even though it's not even nine o'clock. I'm just beat! So, I'm just gonna update the story and relax for a bit and for once turn in early!**

 **Thank you for reviewing: Lovesagoodstory19, SplittingImage4, Artemis7448, IronLace, Thewickedprinces, DreamonAlina, and Companion Teresa.**

 **All of your reviews made me laugh and smile and feel very proud! There was only one question... Is Kyrie preggers? To which I can only answer: No spoilers, sweetie!**

 **Also, heads up. Curve ball incoming! Enjoy this chapter!**

 **SSS**

"The what of the what?" Watson asked Holmes with a puzzled look on his face. They were seated in a Hansom cab on their way to meet Holmes' brother. Though Watson wasn't aware of that small detail just yet.

"The obliquity of the ecliptic." Holmes pulled a face as he repeated himself. He briefly patted his inverness cape to feel the small object attached to his waistcoat underneath... a gold pocket watch. He ignored the pointed look that Watson gave him. Maybe he should stop feeling for the watch so often...

"'Come at once,' you said. I assumed it was important"

"It _is_. It's the inclination of the Earth's equator to the path of the sun on the celestial plane."

Watson scoffed at him. "Have you been swotting up?"

Holmes gave him an exasperated look. "Why would I do that?"

"To sound clever," Watson said dryly.

"I _am_ clever."

"Oh, I see," Watson said as if he suddenly understood all.

Holmes couldn't help himself. "You see what?" he asked.

"I _deduce_ we're on our way to see someone cleverer than you."

Holmes pulled a face. "Shut up," he said after a brief moment.

SSS

They soon approached a building and Sherlock noticed Watson staring at it with a puzzled look on his face. He briefly glanced at the sign a the side of the entrance... 'The Diogenes Club.'

His lips curled at the irony. Diogenes of Sinope, Greek philosopher. He made virtue out of poverty and alleviated it to an art form. Also the man had enjoyed engaging himself with sexual self-gratifying acts while out in the public.

Inside this club however, there was no trace of poverty. But, Holmes would not put it past any of the 'gentleman' frequenting the club to enjoy a bit of 'fetching mettle' from time to time, but at least they did not engage in such actions en plein public.

Holmes squinted his eyes before allowing himself and his friend entrance to the building. Inside, a glass sign was hanging above the reception desk stating, "ABSOLUTE SILENCE".

Holmes and Watson walked in and approached the desk. Holmes smiled at the elderly uniformed gentleman standing behind it, who raised an acknowledging finger to him.

Holmes put his gloves into his coat pocket and instantly and effortlessly used sign language to communicate with the receptionist, signing:

" _Good morning, Wilder. Is my brother in?"_

Wilder nodded and signed back at him.

" _Naturally sir. It's breakfast time."_

Holmes nodded in perfect understanding and signed back at the man.

" _The Stranger's Room?"_

" _Yes, sir."_

Holmes gestured towards Watson, then signed, _"This gentleman is my guest."_

Wilder looked at Watson. _"Ah Yes! Dr Watson, of course. Enjoyed 'The Blue Carbuncle', sir."_

When Watson showed no inclination to reply, which would be the polite thing to do, Holmes rolled his eyes, then elbowed him and nodded at him.

Watson gulped and looked a bit nervous before he signed to Wilder, _"Thank you. I...am...glad...you...liked it. You are very...ugly."_

Holmes eyes widened and did a double take, seeing what his friend had just signed.

Wilder frowned and signed at Watson. "I beg your pardon?"

Watson signed in reply. _"Ugly. What you said about 'The Blue Fishmonger' Very ugly... I am glad you liked my potato."_

Wilder looked a bit bewildered and gave Holmes a quizzical glance. Holmes merely smiled ruefully at Watson and signed to him. _"Yes. Needs work, Watson. Too much time spent on dancing lessons."_

His friend blinked his eyes and didn't seem to understand. Holmes realised his friend was about to make a faux pas, but was unable to stop him.

"Sorry, what?" Watson asked aloud.

Holmes rolled his eyes and turned to walk away.

Soon after, he opened the door to 'The Stranger's Room'. His eyes were instantly drawn to the exceedingly corpulent man who was sitting, completely wedged into his chair. On either side of him were several tables loaded with all sorts of food, including puddings, cakes, pork pies and a huge roasted ham.

Holmes curved his lips into a disdainful smile. _See? No poverty here, only excess to the extreme. Diogenes would roll over in his grave._

The man rubbed his fingers together as he chewed on his latest mouthful. Holmes walked around the chair to face his older sibling.

"To anyone who wishes to study mankind, this is the spot," his brother averred.

"Handy, really, as your ever-expanding backside is permanently glued to it," Holmes said, clasping his hands behind his back. "Good morning, brother mine."

Mycroft was still chewing his last mouthful as he gave them a small smile. "Sherlock. Doctor Watson."

Holmes tried to ignore the look of horror displayed on his friends face as he took in all the food surrounding his... big... brother. It was a look that was hard to ignore.

Mycroft held out a superbly pudgy hand to him. Watson hesitantly took Mycroft's hand and shook it briefly.

"You look... well, sir," Watson finally decided to say.

"Really? I rather thought I looked enormous," Mycroft said as he picked up a glass of port and drank from it.

That seemed to be all the encouragement Watson needed to start a little lecture. "Well, now you mention it, this level of consumption is _incredibly_ injurious to your health. Your heart..."

"No need to worry on that score, Watson," Holmes said, cutting him off.

"No?" Watson asked.

"There's only a _large_ cavity where that organ should reside," Holmes said dryly.

"Still a bit of a snoutband I see," Mycroft said. "I take it Doctor Watson is acclimatised to never getting to the end of a sentence. You should get along splendidly. And um... It's a family trait."

"Oh, I wasn't being critical."

"And so you shouldn't be. We both know what decision _you_ made when the rare opportunity arose to prove you don't share that particular trait."

Holmes clenched his jaw tightly. Leave it to Mycroft to bring up _that_ sordid business now, in front of Watson no less. It was a low blow to remind him of that decision he had come to regret ever since. Thankfully, Watson did not seem to notice his inner turmoil.

"If you continue like this, sir, I give you five years at the most."

Holmes raised his eyebrow and looked round at the, largely, accurate estimation of his friend. It was rather close.

"Five?" Mycroft questioned. "We thought three, did we not, Sherlock?"

"I'm still inclined to four," Holmes replied.

"As ever, you see but you do not observe. Note the discolouration in the whites of my eyes, the visible rings of fat around the corneas..."

"Yes, you're right. I'm changing my bet to three years, four months and eleven days."

"A _bet_?!" Watson cried out.

"I understand your disapproval, Watson, but if he's feeling competitive it is perfectly within his power to die early."

"That's a risk you'll have to take," Mycroft said with a gleeful smile.

"You're gambling with your own life?" Watson asked incredulously.

"Why not? It's so much more exciting than gambling with others'."

Holmes nodded in the direction of the nearby tables. "Three years flat if you eat that plum pudding."

"Done!" Mycroft exclaimed with glee. He licked his lips, reached over to the table to pick up the large stodgy pudding on a plate and stuffed it inside of his wide open mouth.

A little later Holmes and Watson were sitting side by side on a couple of chairs facing Mycroft. There was a small table beside Watson on which a coffee pot, a milk jug and a bowl of sugar was placed, together with a cup and saucer with white coffee in it.

Holmes didn't like his coffee white. Sugar, yes. Milk, no. He was holding a cup and saucer himself and had just taken a drink from his strong, black but sweetened coffee.

"I expected to see you a few days ago about the Manor House case. I thought you might be a little out of your depth there."

Holmes put down his cup and saucer on a table beside him. "No. I solved it," he said casually.

"It was Adams, of course." Mycroft said, not letting go of the issue.

"Yes, it was Adams." Holmes admitted.

Mycroft turned his head to face Watson. "Murderous jealousy." He explained. "He'd written a paper for the Royal Astronomical Society on the obliquity of the ecliptic, and then read another that seemed to surpass it."

"I know," Sherlock said, trying to keep his triumph to a bare minimum. "I read it."

"Did you understand it?" Mycroft wanted to know.

Holmes gave Watson a sideways glance. "Yes, of _course_ I understood it. It was perfectly simple."

"No, did you understand the murderous jealousy? It is no easy thing for a great mind to contemplate a still greater one. Though, I should think you'd be well versed with 'murderous jealousy' that by now. "

Holmes sighed before giving his brother a slight smile. "Did you summon me here just to humiliate me?"

"Yes."

 _That pompous prick!_ Holmes pulled his lips in a grim line and bolted from his chair.

His brother chuckled at him. "Of course not, but it is by far the greater pleasure."

"Then would you mind explaining exactly why you _did_ summon..."

Mycroft immediately talked over him. "Our way of life is under threat from an invisible enemy, one that hovers at our elbow on a daily basis. These enemies are everywhere, undetected and unstoppable."

Watson leaned forward, clearly taking interest. "Socialists?"

Mycroft looked over at him. "Not socialists, Doctor, no."

"Anarchists?" Watson offered.

"No."

"The French? The suffragists?"

"Is there any large body of people you're _not_ concerned about?" Mycroft asked curiously.

"Doctor Watson is endlessly vigilant," Sherlock said, in defence of his friend, maybe just a bit in jest as well. He looked at his brother. "Elaborate."

"No. _Investigate_ ," Mycroft said. "This is a conjecture of mine and I need you to confirm it. I'm sending you a case."

Watson frowned thoughtfully. Clearly his mind had just come forth with a new bright idea. "The Scots." He tried again.

"Scots?!" Holmes breathed out in exasperation. Clearly, _not_ such a bright idea.

"Are you aware of recent theories concerning what is known as 'paranoia'?" Mycroft asked, looking at Watson.

"Ooh, sounds Serbian," Watson said, lowering his voice.

Holmes rolled his eyes. Honestly, Watson could be _such_ a dorbel at times!

"A woman will call on you. I want you to take her case."

Holmes arched a brow at his brother. Now _why_ would his brother _personally_ ask him to take the case... of a woman?

"But these enemies... How are we to defeat them if you won't tell us about them?" Watson asked, his mind still stuck on the invisible enemies.

"We _don't_ defeat them," Mycroft told John. "We must certainly lose to them."

"Why?"

"Because they are right. And we are wrong."

Holmes cleared his throat. "Her... case – what is it?"

"Oh, rest assured, it has _features_ of interest."

"I never really say that." Holmes claimed.

"No, you really do."

"And you've solved it already, I assume?" Holmes asked his brother.

"Only in my head. I need you for the, er..." He grimaced in disdain. "... legwork."

"Legwork!" Holmes scoffed, "Be careful, you're turning into quite a cumberworld."

"Taking up space, yes. Useless...? Never!" Mycroft differed.

"Why not just tell us your solution?" John asked.

"Where would be the sport in that? Will you do it, Sherlock? I can promise you a superior distraction."

"On one condition. Have another plum pudding."

"There's one on the way."

Holmes buttoned his dress coat and started to walk away. "Two years, eleven months and four days."

Mycroft chuckled in good humour. "It's getting exciting now! Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock," he said, waggling his fat fingers at Watson as they left.

SSS

Holmes and Watson were sitting in their armchairs. Holmes was watching the elegantly-dressed woman sitting on a dining chair opposite them. It was... difficult... to remain aloof in her presence. He was of a mind to murder his elder brother for not giving him fair warning.

It was also difficult to ignore the curious glances that Watson kept giving him and the lady sitting near them. It was not hard to guess his interest. Holmes' fingers briefly touched his golden pocket watch, he patted it lightly.

"Mr Holmes, I have come here for advice."

"That is easily got," he replied softly. He couldn't help but noticing how her voice had a lovely melodious quality.

"And help."

"Not always so easy," he replied, looking into her eyes. They were... paler than he'd imagined them to be. There was a sadness and emptiness inside them. He couldn't help but wonder... for how much of that sadness was he responsible?

"Something has happened, Mr Holmes – something... unusual and... terrifying."

"Then you are in luck."

She scoffed in disdain. " _Luck_?"

He smiled at her. "Those are my specialisms." He looked across at Watson and smiled at him. "This is really very promising."

"Holmes..." Watson warned him.

Holmes dropped his smile and turned back to the woman.

"Please do tell us what has _so_ distressed you."

She gave him a pointed look. Their eyes met for a brief moment. "I – I thought long and hard as to what to do, but then, er, it occurred to me that my..." She paused. It seemed that whatever her next words would be, they made her almost physically ill. "... _husband_ was an acquaintance of your brother and that, perhaps through that... you'd feel some _kindness_ towards me."

Holmes tilted his head at her.

"The fact is, I'm not sure this comes within your purview, Mr Holmes."

"No?"

"In fact, I think it may be a matter for a priest."

Holmes glanced across at Watson, who returned his gaze.

As the lady told her story, Holmes' mind filled in the blanks and gaps and he envisioned the moment she was telling them about... He could see it happen, almost as if he'd been there himself...

SSS

Sir Gerulf Schricken and his wife were eating breakfast. He was regarding his wife, Lady Schricken, who refused to even so much as glance at him. He took a drink from his teacup.

"And what does your morning threaten, my dear? A vigorous round of embroidering? An exhausting appointment at the milliner's?"

His wife cut herself a bite of food and lifted it to her mouth. "Oh, no... Nothing even remotely that exciting," she replied, her voice scathing. "I was thinking of visiting a friend. If I have your _permission_ , that is."

"We'll have to see about that, won't we?" Sir Gerulf told her with a sneer. Then a footman entered the room and brought in a silver plate. On it were letters and a letter opener. Sir Gerulf slit open the first envelope and looked inside.

Lady Schricken arched a delicate eyebrow when she saw how Sir Gerulf froze in his seat and stared at the contents of the envelope in horror.

"What is it?" she asked without sounding particularly interested.

Sir Gerulf didn't respond. He just kept staring at whatever was inside the envelope.

Lady Schricken got up and snatched the envelope from his hands. She tipped the contents into her hand and then looked at five orange pips. She started laughing in a mocking way. "Since when are you afraid of fruit pips? Does it mean anything?"

She looked at Sir Gerulf's horror stricken face, but did not seem to care about his distress in the least.

"Death," he whispered.

"What?" Lady Schricken asked.

"It means death," he said again. He then pulled himself together and tried to laugh. "Er, nothing. It's, er, it's nothing. I was mistaken."

Sir Gerulf put the letter opener back on the tray.

"How unfortunate," Lady Schricken said, before she lifted her skirts and left the room.


	74. Lady Schricken's Reason

**A/N And I'm back with another update. So sorry you guys are still not rid of Gerulf Schricken. As you no doubt already guessed, while Sherlock is deep inside of his Mind Palace, he's not only trying to solve the case but also envisions what it would have been like if he'd said 'no' to marrying Kyrie. His mind is playing devious tricks on him! Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this little twist.**

 **Thewickedprinces Oh, don't bite your nails! My youngest always does that too and has no nails to speak off. Always chews them off! And well, you guessed it right. Kyrie is married to Gerulf. Yuck!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Well, I think by now it's clear who Lady Schricken is! And thank you for touching on the fact I added a bit of Victorian slang to the story. That was pretty hard! Also pretty fun! When I found the word 'cumberworld' I knew I had to use it ;-)**

 **IronLace Shh! No spoilers! Damn, I knew I was being too obvious with that stupid pocket watch. Gah!**

 **Artemis7448 Glad you like the twist. I hope you are not too disappointed I started about one third into the story.**

 **LadyRedStar Actually, that was done on purpose. I explained this a few times in author's notes and addressing reviews. There was no point in writing the entire episode because my OC is not in it from the start. So, it would just be a rehash of the script with just some added inner thoughts. Instead, I chose to start the story later into this episode, right before Kyrie does become part of the plot. I hope you don't mind too much.**

 **DreamonAlina. Just breathe and stay calm. And enjoy this update ;-)**

 **EllemichelleP I'm really happy you like what I did so far. Poor Kyrie. I can't stand the fact that Sherlock created a 'universe' in which she's married to Gerulf, just because he wants to know what that would have been like. The git!**

 **Elbafo Sorry! I have a thing with food! It's such a comfort bringing factor in everyday life, it's my little way of showing how Kyrie brings 'comfort' into the lives of the boys. Thank you for your lovely review again!**

 **Kuppcake Glad you like the twist!**

 **Okay, I hope you guys will enjoy this chapter. Let me know what you think ;-)**

SSS

"Did you keep the envelope?" Holmes asked Lady Schricken.

"He destroyed it..."

Watson frowned at her.

"... but it was blank. No name or address of any kind."

"Tell me. Has Sir Gerulf spent time in America?" Holmes asked her.

Lady Schricken looked at him with an impassive look on her face. "No."

"Not even before your..." Holmes blinked his eyes and cleared his throat, "... marriage?" He continued in a softer voice.

"Well, not to my knowledge."

"Hmm. Pray continue with your fascinating narrative," he implored her. He steepled his hands in front of his mouth. Clearly, there was no love lost between Lady Schricken and her husband. Though that hardly came as a surprise, considering... how they'd met.

"Well, that incident took place last Monday morning. It was two days later, on the Wednesday, that Sir Gerulf first saw her."

"Who?" Watson asked.

Lady Schricken continued her tale and again, Holmes could see it all happen as if he'd been there himself.

SSS

It was still dark. Lady Schricken was lying in bed, awake and looking up at the ceiling. When she looked across the bed, she noticed that Sir Gerulf wasn't in it. She lifted her head and saw him standing at the window in his night shirt, staring out into the grounds.

"What are you doing?" she asked him, her voice touched with ice.

Sir Gerulf was staring out of the window and he whimpered softly. Lady Schricken was unmoved by his display of fear. Suddenly he turned around and flung himself on the bed. Sobbing, he grasped at his wife's nightgown and clutched it in his hands.

"She's come for me, Kyrie. Oh, God help me, my sins have found me out."

"It's about time," Lady Schricken – Kyrie – replied. "Who's come for you? I'd like to send her a 'thank you' note."

Gerluf grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her from the bed and pulled her with him towards the window. "Look! Look!"

Lady Schricken looked out into the misty grounds but there was nobody in sight. Gerulf sobbed and buried his face into her shoulder. She pushed him away from her.

"Don't you see her?" he cried.

"No. I see no-one."

Out in the grounds, the mist roiled over a large hedge maze, but, wherever the mist cleared... nothing and no-one was seen.

Sir Gerulf looked again, then turned to his wife, smiling hopefully. "Gone," he said. He then broke down in tears and crumpled to his knees, sobbing.

"Who have you seen?"

"It was _her_. It was the _Bride_ ," he choked out and he grasped at the hem of her nightgown and held it to his face.

Lady Schricken – Kyrie – forcefully yanked the fabric from his hands. "Good for you," she snapped. "You've already had your pleasure tonight. Now leave me in peace. I would like to get some sleep."

SSS

Watson's eyes widened and he looked across to Holmes, who glanced back at him before looking at Kyrie... Lady Schricken. It really would be better to keep thinking of her as 'Lady Schricken', if only to preserve his own sanity.

"And you saw nothing?" Holmes asked her.

"Nothing."

"Did your husband describe..." He stopped abruptly seeing the look of anger that Lady Schricken gave him.

"Did... _Sir Gerulf_ describe...?"

"Nothing – until this morning," she clarified. "Sir Gerulf had woken up early and went outside. I went out as well to see what he was up to and outside in the maze I heard a woman sing... _'Do not forget me, Do not forget me. Remember the maid, The maid of the mill._ '"

Holmes listened intently to what she was saying. And what she wasn't...

"Anyway, I found Sir Gerulf standing in the hedge maze and a woman dressed in a wedding gown was standing in front of him. Before you ask, her face was covered in a veil. He was deathly afraid of her and he told me she was Emelia Ricoletti. Which is impossible of course, but, whoever it was, she said that tonight he will die. Sir Gerulf decided to have a fainting spell that moment. I checked on him and the moment I looked back up, the woman in the wedding gown had disappeared."

"Holmes?" Watson tried to get his attention when Lady Schricken had finished her tale.

"Hush, Watson," Sherlock said.

"But Emelia Ricoletti, the Bride!"

Holmes rolled his eyes. Leave it to him to blame several murders on a vengeful ghost.

Lady Schricken looked at him.."You know the name."

"You must forgive Watson. He has an enthusiasm for stating the obvious which borders on mania. May I ask: how _is_ your husband... I mean, Sir Gerulf, this morning?"

"Still alive," Lady Schricken quipped. She then sighed. "He doesn't talk about the matter and I don't press it. Since I had things to tend to inside the house, I encouraged him to leave."

"No, no! He must stay _exactly_ where he is."

Lady Schricken gave him a calculated look. "You think he's in danger?"

"Oh yes. Somebody definitely wants to kill him, but that's good for us. You can't set a trap without bait."

He smiled at her and she smiled back. "You tend to lure out the killer," she averred.

"Exactly!" Holmes told at her and he couldn't stop a grin from spreading on his face. "Now, listen. You must go home immediately. Doctor Watson and I will follow on the next train. There's not a moment to lose. Sir Gerulf is to die tonight."

Lady Schricken arched a brow at him while Watson admonished him. "Holmes!" he cried out.

"... and we should... probably avoid that," Holmes added.

"Definitely," Watson corrected him.

" _Definitely_ avoid that," Holmes amended.

Lady Schricken gave him a look. "I don't mind 'probably', it's more than good enough," she said with a small smile.

"Lady Schricken, if you don't mind me asking," Watson said, looking at her. "You don't seem to have much affection for your husband. If _he_ had no intention of seeking help, why did you?"

She looked at Watson with a glacial expression on her face. "It's true. I don't have a shred of affection for him. He is a horrible, odious man... a muck snipe. I never would have married him if I'd had the option to say 'no'."

Lady Schricken briefly glanced at Holmes with those words. She then looked down at her folded hands. "In these cases, if somebody does turn up dead, the police usually looks at the next of kin for suspects. Since I won't shed a tear for him and that would look rather suspicious... That means I'm here because I don't want to _become_ a suspect."

She got up from her chair and Holmes got up as well to see her out. He opened the door for her and as she stepped through, their fingers brushed together. Their eyes met and he held her gaze for a long moment. Her eyes briefly told him a story of what life could have been like had he made a different decision. She then quickly turned around and walked down the steps and out of their flat, leaving him alone with the ghost which haunted him every waking hour of each and every day... Regret. Holmes briefly closed his eyes. What a fool he'd been!

SSS

Holmes and Watson were sitting opposite each other in the window seats of a single train compartment. The seats were comfortable enough, but the green coloured fabric was ghastly.

Holmes had his eyes closed. He was thinking of her eyes. Pale blue. For some reason he knew the colour was all wrong. He didn't know why, but he knew they should be sparkling violet.

"You don't suppose..." Watson tried to make conversation.

"I don't, and neither should you," Holmes said, quickly cutting him off.

"You don't know what I was going to say."

Holmes still had his eyes closed. "You were about to suggest there may be some supernatural agency involved in this matter, and I was about to laugh in your face. There, now that we've established I did know what you were going to say, we can skip the entire embarrassing conversation."

"But the Bride! Holmes, Emelia Ricoletti, _again_. A dead woman, walking the Earth!"

Holmes sighed heavily and opened his eyes. "I thought we agreed to skip this... You amaze me, Watson."

"I do?"

"Since when have you had any kind of imagination?"

"Perhaps since I convinced the reading public that an unprincipled drug addict is some kind of gentleman hero."

Holmes nodded his head. It was hard to argue with that point. "Yes, now you come to mention it, that _was_ quite impressive. You may, however, rest assured there are no ghosts in this world."

Watson nodded slightly and looked out of the window. Holmes lowered his eyes. "... save those we make for ourselves," he said quietly. He then closed his eyes again and leaned his head back against the headrest.

"Sorry, what did you say?" Watson asked him.

Holmes kept his eyes closed. He was distracted by flashes of violet and a radiant smile. The visions pained him, but it was a pain he embraced.

"Ghosts we make for ourselves? What do you mean?"

Holme didn't respond. He also chose to ignore Watson's audible sigh.

SSS

They were at the stately home of the Schrickens. Sir Gerulf was standing near the fireplace of a large drawing room. Watson stood close by, facing him, while Holmes was pacing around the room. He couldn't stand to watch that pathetic excuse for a human being for longer than a couple of seconds.

"Somnambulism," Sir Gerulf suddenly said.

"I beg your pardon?" Watson gave him a puzzled look.

"I sleepwalk, that's all. It's a common enough condition. I thought you were a doctor. The whole thing was a bad dream."

"Including the contents of the envelope you received?" Watson said, disbelief evident in his voice.

Sir Gerulf tried to laugh.

"Just a grotesque joke."

"Well, that's not the impression you gave your wife, sir." Watson countered him.

"She's an hysteric, prone to fancies."

"No," Holmes said curtly.

"I'm sorry? What did you say?" Sir Schricken asked, sounding perplexed.

Holmes stopped his pacing and looked at the man.

He could feel the hairs in his neck stand on end every time he laid eyes on the black, greased back hair of that man, or the leering green eyes, that wide thin mouth that made him look like a frog. The mere thought of that man crawling on top of Lady Schricken at night, most of the nights... it made his stomach turn.

"I said no, she's not an hysteric. She's a highly intelligent woman of rare perception."

"My wife sees terror in an orange pip."

Holmes walked closer to him. "Your wife is very capable of understanding cause and effect. Not only that, she is brave enough to act accordingly. Whereas you'd rather stick your head in the sand and ignore the situation."

"Can she really? And how do you 'deduce' that, Mr Holmes?" Gerulf asked him sarcastically.

"She came to me." Holmes noticed how Watson smiled discreetly. "I assume she doesn't like the prospect of becoming a prime suspect when she sheds no tears over your cold corpse."

Sir Gerulf bared his teeth and angrily surged towards him. Holmes gave him a tight smile as Watson instantly steps closer to him, ready to protect him if necessary. Though Holmes appreciated the sentiment, no protection was needed this moment. Sir Gerulf stopped immediately when Holmes spoke again. "I'm willing try to save your life tonight, but first it would help if you would explain your connection to the Ricoletti case."

Sir Gerulf blinked his eyes at him before replying. "Ricoletti?" he said, his voice hesitant.

"Yes. In detail, please."

"I've never heard of her," Sir Gerulf said, after a brief pause.

"Interesting. I didn't mention she was a woman. We'll show ourselves out."

Sir Gerulf swallowed nervously.

"I hope to see you again in the morning. Or actually... I don't." Holmes turned on his heels and started to leave the room.

"You will not!" Sir Gerulf burst out.

"Then I shall be solving your murder, though I can't said it would grieve me a lot. Good day."

He and Watson walked into the entrance hall. Holmes took a small leather bound notebook from his trouser pocket and wrote a note onto one of the pages.

"Well, you tried," Watson said.

Holmes however ignored his remark and addressed a footman that just then walked across the hall towards them. "Will you see that Lady Schricken receives this?" Holmes handed him the note. "Thank you. Good afternoon."

"Yes, sir," the footman said with a slight bow of his head before he instantly turned to deliver the note to the person it was intended for.

"What was that?"

"Lady Schricken will sleep alone tonight, on the pretence of a violent headache. All the doors and windows of the house will be locked. No doubt Lady Schricken will be grateful for the reprieve."

They reached the wardrobe near the entrance of the house to retrieve their coats and hats.

"Ah, you think the spectre..."

Holmes looked at him disapprovingly.

"... er, the Bride will attempt to lure Sir Gerulf outside again?"

Holmes was just putting on his supple inverness cape. "Why else the portentous threat? 'This night you will die.'"

"Well, he won't follow her _again_ , surely?"

"It's difficult to say quite _what_ he'll do. Guilt is eating away at his soul." He pulled his gloves from his pocket and put them on.

"Guilt? About what?"

"Oh, trust me, he has plenty to feel guilty about. But, this is something further in his past. The orange pips were a reminder."

Watson was putting on his gloves as well. "So, not a joke then?"

"Not at all. Orange pips are a traditional warning of avenging death, originating in America. Sir Gerulf knows this only too well, just as he knows _why_ he is to be punished."

They both took their hats from the pegs and started to walk out onto the entrance porch. Watson put on his hat. "Something to do with Emelia Ricoletti," he said.

"I presume. We all have a past, Watson."

"Hmm."

They stopped in the porch. Sherlock looked at Watson. "Ghosts – they are the shadows that define our every sunny day," he said in a soft voice. "Sir Gerulf knows he's a marked man."

Watson glanced back behind them into the house.

"There's something more than murder he fears. He believes he is to be dragged to Hell by the risen corpse of the late Mrs Ricoletti."

Watson looked around thoughtfully for a moment, then turned back to Holmes. "That's a lot of nonsense, isn't it?"

"God, yes. Did you bring your revolver?" Holmes inquired.

"What good would that be against a ghost?"

"Exactly. Did you bring it?"

"Yeah, of course." Watson confirmed.

"Then come, Watson, come," he said while he put on his deerstalker. "The game is afoot!"

With those words they headed off.

SSS


	75. His One Regret

**A/N Just because I can and because I'm in a good mood. And, let's face it... this is the scene you guys are most curious about, isn't it? Well... I've decided to put you out of your misery and give it to you. This probably means this comes in the place of the chapter for tomorrow, or, if I make good progress on Six Thatchers tomorrow, I may post again tomorrow evening.**

 **EllemichelleP I'm nothing without my little cliffhangers. You know this. Hope this makes up for it... a bit ;-)**

 **IronLace Well, you get to see your suspicions, or, deductions, come to fruition. Enjoy!**

 **Artemis7448 I guess you could say he's her Consulting Detective in a deerstalker, instead of her knight in shining armour. I know which I'd prefer!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 You have no idea how happy that one comment made me, that you can understand why I had such a great time writing this episode. Oh, and there's so much more to come. What I said about Abominable Bride, I now say about Six Thatchers. There's quite a bit of fluff since I think we need that after the end of AB and then the shit storm that's the end of Six Thatchers, Lying Detective and Final Problem!**

 **Thewickedprinces You will find out the answer to all of your questions in this chapter!**

 **Happy reading! *crickets chirp* Ah well. :-D**

SSS

Holmes and Watson were hiding in a greenhouse in the grounds of the Schricken house. Watson grunted and stood up from his crouched position.

"Get down, Watson, for heaven's sake!" Holmes admonished him.

Watson quickly sat down again. "Sorry. Cramp." He grimaced and rubbed his leg. "Is the, er, lamp still burning?"

Holmes looked across to one of the few windows of the house which were still lit. "Yes," he said. Almost immediately after he said that, the lamp in that room went out.

"There goes Sir Gerulf," Holmes said quietly. He then looked across to the other lighted window, which went dark just a moment later.

"And Lady Schricken. The house sleeps."

Watson shook his head. He seemed to be rather bored. He drew in a deep breath.

"Mmm, good God, this is the longest night of my life."

"Have patience, Watson." Holmes advised.

Watson took out his pocket watch and looked at it. "Only midnight," he said and he put the watch away again. "You know, it's rare for us to sit together like this."

"I should hope so. It's murder on the knees," Holmes said with a smile. Watson smiled back.

"Hmm. Two old friends, just talking, chewing the fat..."

Holmes noticed how Watson looked at him intently. "... man to man."

He blinked at the words and quickly looked towards the house again, fidgeting slightly.

"She's a remarkable woman," Watson said casually.

"Who?"

"Lady Schricken."

"The fair sex is your department, Watson. I'll take your word for it." Holmes tried to sound nonchalantly, but Watson wasn't having any of it.

"No, you liked her. A 'woman of rare perception'."

"And admirably high arches. I noticed them as soon as she stepped into the room. Melodious voice too."

"Huh. She's far too good for _h_ _im_."

"You think so?" Holmes still tried to sound uninterested.

"No, _you_ think so. I could tell."

"On the contrary, I have no view on the matter."

"Yes you have."

"Marriage is not a subject upon which I dwell," Holmes finally said after a brief moment of silence.

"Well, why not?"

"What's the matter with you this evening?" Holmes asked in exasperation, wishing Watson would drop the subject already!

"Can we stop beating about the bush?" Watson told him sternly. "That watch that you're wearing. You have a photograph of Lady Schricken inside it. I recognised her the moment she came by to visit at Baker Street. I- I glimpsed the photograph once..."

"You didn't 'glimpse' it. You waited 'til I had fallen asleep and _looked_ at it."

"Yes, I did," Watson admitted.

"You seriously thought I wouldn't notice?" Holmes scoffed.

"Why do you have a photograph of Lady Schricken inside your watch?"

Holmes closed his eyes. He'd really hoped that Watson would just... let this go. "It was... given to me," he finally said.

"By her?" Watson asked.

"Why are you pressing the matter?"

"Why are _you_ so determined to be alone? Why are you walking around with the photograph of a married woman. Is that it? Is she _the one who got away_?"

"Are you quite well, Watson?"

"Is it such a curious question?" Watson asked him.

"From a Viennese alienist, no; from a retired Army surgeon, most certainly."

"Holmes," Watson said in a slow deliberate voice. "Against absolutely no opposition whatsoever, I am your closest friend."

"I concede it," Holmes said, perhaps just a shade haughtily.

"I am currently attempting to have a perfectly _normal_ conversation with you."

" _Please_ don't," Holmes said precisely.

" _Why_ do you need to be alone?" Watson asked, equally precise.

"If you are referring to romantic entanglement, Watson – which I rather fear you are – as I have often explained before, all emotion is abhorrent to me. It is the grit in a sensitive instrument..."

What use was romantic entanglement to him anyway, now the one person he could ever consider himself being with, was forever out of his reach?

"... the crack in the lens," Watson finished for him. "Yes."

"Well, there you are, you see? I've said it all before."

"No, I wrote all that. You're quoting yourself from The Strand Magazine."

"Well, exactly."

"No, those are _my_ words, not yours! That is the version of you that I present to the public; the brain without a heart, the calculating machine. I write all of that, Holmes, and the readers lap it up, but I do not believe it."

"Well, I've a good mind to write to your editor." Holmes mumbled.

"You are a living, breathing man. You've lived a life. You have a past."

"A what?!"

"Well, you must have had..."

"Had what?" Holmes asked.

Watson paused a bit awkwardly, then pointed at him. "You know."

"No."

Watson swallowed. "Experiences."

"Pass me your revolver. I have a sudden need to use it," Holmes said curtly.

"Damn it, Holmes. You are flesh and blood. You have feelings. You have... you _must_ have... impulses."

Holmes closed his eyes in exasperation. "Dear Lord. I have never been so impatient to be attacked by a murderous ghost," he said through gritted teeth.

"As your friend – as someone who... worries about you – what made you like this?"

Holmes opened his eyes and looked at his friend, feeling a bit... sad. "Oh, Watson. Nothing made me. _I_ made me."

"You don't fool me, Holmes. All your talk about not feeling and here you are, a picture of Lady Schricken hidden in your pocket watch. A watch you have with you at all times. A watch you are afraid to lose because, during the day you often touch it, as if you want to make sure it is still there. I know you are a private man, but... I _need_ to know, Holmes," Watson said.

Holmes looked at him and saw that he meant it. This was not a secret Watson would allow him to keep. He closed his eyes and swallowed, feeling again the dull pain in the cavity where his heart used to reside.

"Lady Schricken," he started to explain, his voice soft, "... was born Kyrie Ellison. A poor ward of my family with little to no prospects of a good marriage. Mycroft was supposed to... help her come out into society at a formal debut. My family was even kind enough to provide a small dowry. Mycroft... unfortunately succeeded a little too well."

"What happened?" Watson asked quietly.

Holmes could feel a nerve twitch in his cheek.

"Sir Gerulf happened. He's someone my brother used to have 'dealings' with. He was completely taken by her innocence and he decided he wanted her. Unfortunately, he also decided to have a 'sampling' of what he considered was already his."

"What?"

"During a small soiree, Sir Gerulf managed to get her alone and... he assaulted her. She had no decent prospects to begin with, and then he made sure she had none. Mycroft felt guilty for having allowed such a thing to happen under his roof and he told Sir Gerulf that there was a... pre-existing agreement between me and her."

"But that wasn't true?"

"No," Holmes said. "It wasn't. Mycroft sent me the watch with the picture inside of it and a note detailing what had transpired. He informed me that Sir Gerulf was on his way to meet me in an attempt to persuade me to... break things off. I only read the note. I didn't even bother to open the watch."

Holmes drew in a shaky breath. "When Sir Gerulf called on me, he asked me if indeed an agreement existed and..."

Watson closed his eyes as he understood. "You said 'no'. Even though you knew what he'd done to the poor woman... and you said 'no'."

Holmes silently nodded his head.

"Then what happened?" Watson asked.

"She had no choice; she had to marry him. And I made the mistake of opening that watch. By then it was already too late."

"You mean... When you opened the watch..."

Holmes looked away from him. "Don't ask me how, or why, for I do not know this. I only know that... when I saw that picture, I knew she was supposed to be _my_ wife. She should have belonged to _me_ and me alone." He closed his eyes and his next words were full of regret. "I should have opened that watch sooner. I should have said 'yes' because that would have been the right thing to do. As you are well aware, I'm not well known for 'doing the right thing'. So, you see... I was right. _I_ made me."

Watson was quiet for a while and when he spoke again, he sounded a bit hesitant. "But, surely, if you were able to feel these emotions once... you can feel them again, maybe for someone el..."

"No," Holmes brusquely cut him off, indicating that now the subject really was over.

From somewhere to his left, he could suddenly hear scrabbling claws along with the sound of a dog whimpering anxiously. Holmes turned his head in the direction of that sound. The whimpering and the scrabbling continued and Holmes frowned in confusion. "Redbeard?" he said quietly.

"Good God!" Watson suddenly cried out.

Holmes turned his head to look at him. Watson was staring towards the house, a look of utter shock on his face. Holmes followed his gaze. Through a dark archway at the house, Holmes saw the illuminated veiled figure of the Bride floating slightly above the ground.

"What are we to do?" Watson asked fearfully.

The Bride raised her right hand as if encouraging them to approach.

Holmes shrugged. "Why don't we have a chat?" he said nonchalantly. He jumped up and started to run across the garden towards the house, Watson following suit.

Holmes called out as he ran along the front porch of the house. "Mrs Ricoletti, I believe."

They stopped outside of the front porch, a few yards away from the ghostly image. The Bride was still floating above the ground, her hands beckoning them.

"Pleasant night for the time of year, is it not?"

Watson seized his arm as if he wanted to hold him back. "It cannot be true, Holmes. It _cannot_!"

The Bride floated backwards towards the door, holding out her hands towards them as she were inviting them in.

"No, it can't."

The Bride began to fade from view. At the same time, they could hear a man scream inside the house. Presumably Sir Gerulf. Holmes and Watson turned their heads towards the sound. Somewhere, they could hear the sound of glass breaking.

Holmes and then Watson turned back towards the other doorway but the Bride had already vanished. Holmes ran to the front door and tried to open it.

"Is it locked?" Watson asked him.

Holmes came back out of the porch. "As per instructions," he confirmed.

"That was a window breaking, wasn't it?" Watson asked him.

"There's only one broken window we need concern ourselves with," Holmes told him quickly and they ran to the nearest window beside the front door and Holmes jabbed his elbow through the glass, then broke out the rest of the glass with his gloved hand.

They climbed inside, and Holmes struck a match to light a lantern. "Stay in here, Watson," he ordered his friend.

"What? No!" Watson objected.

"All the doors and windows to the house are locked. This is their only way out. I need you here." Holmes insisted as he picked up the lantern and hurried away.

"But the sound was so close, it _had_ to be from this side of the house." Watson tried again.

"Stay here!" Holmes ordered him sternly and he ran into the house.


	76. The Bird Had Flown

**A/N And back with another chapter. Kyrie is not in it a lot, sorry for that. Hopefully this chapter still makes for a good read.**

 **Companion Teresa You are very welcome. Thanks you for your PM as well. I'm thrilled you enjoy the story so much. As for if and when baby Holmes will happen. Well, you know a little bit about that now ;-)**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 I wish I could take credit for the revolver comment, sadly, that is all the great Moftiss. As for how Kyrie can forgive Holmes? Easy, it's Victorian times, times were different and women didn't have a lot of options. Add to that the fact there was no additional threat to Holmes' parents so there was little motivation for him to shackle himself to this poor ward of his family he maybe encountered just a few times without sparing her a second glance. Also, Kyrie may lose a bit of her endless patience and understanding soon...**

 **EllemichelleP Oops, I did it again!**

 **Artemis7448 Who managed to convinced us he was so brilliant anyway? He can sure be a dumb jackass at times!**

 **DreamonAlina Yeah, parts of his regular life seeping through his alter ego in his Mind Palace. He instantly knew that somehow Kyrie was always supposed to have been his.**

 **IronLace Not really the first time they met, she was a ward of his family, but definitely the first time in years and also the first time he really had a conversation with her and actually _looked_ at her.**

 **Elbafo Wow six reviews at once! Thank you! Glad you still enjoy this story. And Gerulf maybe a toad, but he's a good MacGuffin :-)**

 **Guest Thank you so much for leaving me a review! It really means a lot that you think the characters are still 'in character', something that's increasingly hard to do because 'real' Sherlock never experienced romance and this one is. It's quite hard to walk that thin line of exploring these new 'feelings and emotions' while still keeping his persona and actions intact.**

 **Okay, bit short chapter. Can't be helped. You guys are gaining on me quite fast. Need to stay ahead, meaning I need to get writing. As in right now, this moment, this instant... Bye!**

SSS

Holmes ran for the stairs and heard Lady Schricken cry out in horror upstairs. He quickly reached the landing and when he did, he looked around, using the light from his lantern to illuminate the carpet. As two maids ran up another set of stairs towards him, Holmes headed off along the landing.

When he turned a corner, he found Lady Schricken standing there in her night dress. She looked rather pale and she stared at the carpet in front of her. When Holmes followed her gaze, he saw a large pool of blood already sinking into the fibres of the carpet.

Holmes looked back at her. She was pale, but she was not in tears. Well, she _had_ predicted she would not shed a tear for him.

The two maids caught up with him and hurried towards their mistress and took hold of her arms, even though Lady Schricken hardly needed their support.

Holmes briefly nodded at her before he turned away and followed the trail of fresh drops of blood that soon led him up another flight of stairs and into the eaves of the house.

He held up his lantern to the left and then to the right, to chase away the darkness and immediately saw a man lying on the floor on his side. There was something sticking out of the man's chest. He walked forward and bent down.

He hesitated, just for a moment, before he gently rolled the victim onto his back. He suddenly stared in Gerulf Schricken's lifeless eyes. Holmes quickly observed the body. The first thing that, obviously, jumped out at him, was the large ornately-handled dagger in his chest.

There wasn't much time to observe the rest of the body as, behind him, one of the maids screamed as she caught sight of the body. One thing Holmes knew for sure, the murderer was no longer upstairs. Ergo, the murder was already trying to make their escape.

"Watson..." Holmes whispered. He wasted no more time and he raced down the stairs, only to bump into Watson who, apparently, was on his way to find him.

"Watson!" Holmes cried out.

His friend pointed to the corridor. "She's there! She's down there!" Watson cried out frantically.

Holmes stared at his friend aghast. Why didn't Watson ever listen to him? "Don't tell me you abandoned your post!"

"What? Holmes, she's there!" Watson pointed to his right with his revolver. "I saw her!"

Holmes aimed his lantern in the direction Watson had pointed to and ran into the corridor. He could hear Watson's hurried footsteps falling behind him.

He skidded to a halt when he reached the broken window and instantly turned back to Watson in anger.

"Empty, thanks to you!" he cried out in aggravation and he paced back and forth the small room. "Our bird is flown." Holmes aimed his lantern in the direction of the broken window to accentuate his words.

"No! No, Holmes, it wasn't what you think. I saw her, the ghost."

Holmes erupted in anger, like a volcano. "THERE ARE NO GHOSTS!" He yelled. He glared at his friend for a moment before he calmed down a bit.

"What happened? Where is Sir Gerulf?" Watson asked.

"Dead," Holmes replied flatly.

SSS

Some time later, a police photographer removed the cap from the lens of his camera and took a photograph of Sir Gerulf's body, still lying where it was found, with the dagger still stuck in his chest.

Holmes, Watson and Lestrade were standing at the top of the nearby stairs.

"You really mustn't blame yourself, you know," Lestrade said, obviously in an attempt to ease Holmes' guilt. Little did Lestrade know that it wasn't guilt that plagued Holmes. He did not like to be bested in the game. Though, to be fair, it was mostly Watson's fault for abandoning his post.

He pulled a long breath through his nose. "No, you're quite right." He agreed.

"I'm glad you're seeing sense," his friend told him.

"Watson is equally culpable, if not more so. Between us, we've managed to botch this whole case. I gave an undertaking to keep that man alive and now he's lying there with a dagger in his breast."

Watson walked towards the body and squatted down near the head. "In fact, you gave an undertaking to investigate his murder."

"In the confident expectation I would not have to." Holmes huffed.

"Anything you can tell us, Doctor?" Lestrade asked him.

"Well, he's been stabbed with considerable force."

"It's a man, then," Lestrade suggested.

"Possibly."

Clearly his friend did not want to make early assumptions. Lestrade seemed quick to catch on. "A very keen blade, so it could conceivably have been a woman."

Watson angrily raised himself from the ground and walked back to them. "In theory, yes, but we _know_ who it was. I saw her."

"Watson," Holmes said, closing his eyes in exasperation.

"I saw the ghost with my own eyes!" Watson cried out.

"You saw _nothing._ " Holmes cried out in anger. "You saw what you were supposed to see!"

"You said yourself – I have no imagination."

"Then use your brain, such as it is, to eliminate the impossible, which in this case is the ghost. And observe what remains, which in _this_ case is a solution so blindingly obvious, even Lestrade could work it out."

"Thank you," Lestrade said, mistaking his words for a compliment.

"Forget spectres from the other world," Holmes sternly told Watson. He then took a deep calming breath. "There is only one suspect with motive and opportunity. They might as well have left a note."

"They _did_ leave a note," Lestrade said.

"And then there's the matter of the other broken window," Holmes said, still addressing Watson.

" _What_ other broken window?" Lestrade asked.

"Precisely. There _isn't_ one. The only broken window in this establishment is the one that Watson and I entered through, yet prior to that we distinctly heard the sound of... _What_ did you just say?" Holmes suddenly asked Lestrade when he realised the implication of Lestrade's earlier remark.

"Sorry?" Lestrade was confused again.

"About a note. What did you just say?"

"I said the murderer did leave a note."

"No they didn't." Holmes said with a slight chuckle.

"There's a message tied to the dagger. You must have seen it!" Lestrade told him.

Holmes walked towards the body. "There's no message."

"Yes!" Lestrade countered.

"There was no message when I found the body."

He stopped and looked down at Sir Gerulf's corpse. And there... sure enough... looped around the hilt of the dagger was a piece of string with a luggage label attached to it. He squatted down, picked up the label and looked at the underside.

His eyes widened and he lowered the label back down onto Sir Gerulf's chest. He stared into the distance. _No... This could not be._ He refused to believe what his very eyes were telling him. He slowly raised himself to his feet.

"Holmes." Watson tried to get his attention, but Holmes did not feel like answering. He then started to walk closer to him as he slowly backed away, then turned around and slowly made his way towards the stairs.

"What is it?" Watson tried again. Still not answering, Holmes descended the stairs, almost trance like... He needed to visit his brother.

SSS

Holmes was staring ahead of himself without really seeing anything. He was standing in dark, shadowy 'The Stranger's Room' of the Diogenes Club.

" _Do_ you?" his brother suddenly asked him. Holmes turned around to face his big, fat blob of a brother.

"Do I what?"

Mycroft held up the bloodstained luggage label. On it was a message. Just two words. 'MISS ME?'

Holmes took a deep breath and drew out the 'h' when he started talking again. "How did you get that?" He pointed at the label. "I left it at the crime scene."

Mycroft put the label down on the table beside him and folded his hands over his huge protruding belly. "'Crime scene'? Where do you pick up these extraordinary expressions?" his brother asked him. " _Do_ you miss him?"

"Moriarty is dead," Holmes said, turning his back towards his brother again.

"And yet..."

"His body was never recovered," Holmes said, his voice soft. He was staring at the telescope in front of him, without actually seeing the object while he let his fingers slide across the smooth surface of the globe on a stand that was next to him.

"To be expected when one pushes a maths professor over a waterfall. Pure reason toppled by sheer melodrama. Your life in a nutshell."

Holmes turned the upper part of his body to face his brother again. "Where do you pick up these extraordinary expressions?" He retorted.

He looked forward and stopped at the sight of a painting on the side wall. Turner's 'Falls of the Reichenbach.' He blinked at it. There was... something... familiar about that painting. Something that had nothing to do with it hanging here.

For a moment Holmes was certain he could see the water pouring over the top of the falls and plummeting into the drop. He turned around to face his brother and sniffed harshly.

"Have you put on weight?"

"You saw me only yesterday. Does that seem possible?" Mycroft asked him.

Holmes slowly walked past his chair while looking at him. "No."

Mycroft held out his hands. "Yet here I am, increased. What does that tell the foremost criminal investigator in England?"

Holmes frowned a bit. "In England?" he asked, sounding a bit indignant.

"You're in deep, Sherlock, deeper than you ever intended to be. Have you made a list?"

"Of what?"

" _Everything_. We will need a list."

Holmes took a deep breath and dug a piece of paper from his pocket and held it up for his brother to see.

"Good boy."

He walked towards his brother, holding out the paper between his fingers, but, just as Mycroft reached for it, Holmes lifted it away and folded it back into his hand before he put it back into his pocket.

"No. I haven't finished yet."

"Moriarty may beg to differ."

Holmes sighed loudly. "He's trying to distract me, to derail me," he said softly. He placed the palms of his hands together and let his fingers rub along his chin. He turned around.

"Yes. He's the crack in the lens, the fly in the ointment... the virus in the data." His brother said precisely.

Holmes lowered his hands and turned back to face his brother. He gave him an intense look. "I _have_ to finish this."

"If Moriarty has risen from the Reichenbach Cauldron, he _will_ seek you out."

"I'll be waiting," Holmes said. He walked past his brother and paused briefly. "You could have warned me you know. You could have told me it was _her_ case you wanted me to take.

"No," his brother replied softly. "Because you never would have taken her case if you'd known."

Holmes bent his head, then steeled himself and went through the door, closing it behind him.

SSS

Holmes casually threw on a blue dressing gown over his clothes. He looked around the living room. He needed to set himself up, make himself comfortable... He had work to do.

He walked over to his chair and lit a small incense burner just behind it. He grabbed newspapers and dumped them onto the floor. He dug a small box from the pocket of his dressing gown and gave it a contemplating look. He then opened it, set it down and covered it with a newspaper. Just in case...

He lowered himself to the floor as well, flicking the back of his dressing gown backwards with a flourish and he settled himself in a cross-legged position.

Before he retreated into his Mind Palace, he made sure to read through every newspaper in front of him. He took a deep breath, let the backs of his hands rest on his knees, touching the index finger of each hand to the thumb, assuming a classic pose for meditation.

Finally, he closed his eyes and retreated deep into himself. At first flashes of violet distracted him. A hand, _his_ hand, was touching soft skin, exploring every curve of a very feminine body. Aroused whimpers and moans drifted towards him. The brief sensation of plunging deeply, gloriously inside of... He gasped and opened his eyes in shock, confused by this little 'mirage' and the profound effect it had on his body.

He shook his head and closed his eyes again. This time, when he opened them, he found himself inside his Mind Palace in the exact same spot where he was actually seated. Torn-out cuttings from newspaper articles started to float past him in mid-air. He reached out and grabbed a few random cuttings as they floated passed him, looking at the text on them. They were all clippings of possible Bride Murders. And a few clippings detailing the death of Gerulf Schricken.

Holmes briefly pulled himself back from his Mind Palace. He lifted that one particular newspaper from the floor and moved it to the side. He reached down and gently caressed the syringe in the box with one finger. He picked it up and looked down at it for a while, then he raised his eyes. He had made his decision...


	77. It's Not Working Out

**A/N Tired author here. Again! I hope I'll be able to go through the last episodes quickly. I'm kind of losing the energy to spend so much time writing. The thought I just need to go through 3 more episodes keeps me going. And your reviews of course!**

 **This is where Kyrie threw me the little curve ball that sent me on a loop! Please, let me know what you think. All suggestions and thoughts are welcome!**

SSS

He was still sitting on the floor with his eyes closed. He was no longer in his Mind Palace though. He was acutely aware that night was falling. From the change in the intensity of the light, he also noticed someone was approaching him. That along with the fact the floor boards creaked.

He frowned slightly and turned his head a little in the direction of the sound, his eyes still closed. The floor creaked again and he heard quiet footsteps.

Soon after, he heard a very familiar voice start to speak.

"Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind," Moriarty said in a quiet voice.

Sherlock didn't move a muscle. "And possibly my answer has crossed yours," he replied, his voice equally quiet.

"Like a bullet."

Opening his eyes, Holmes carefully got to his feet, instantly putting his right hand into his pocket. He then turned to face his adversary, Professor Moriarty, standing right in front of the right-hand window.

"It's a dangerous habit, to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one's dressing gown. Or are you just pleased to see me?" Moriarty smiled at him, then rolled his jaw and tilted his head to the right, crunching the bones in his neck.

"You'll forgive me for taking precautions," Holmes said in a measured voice.

"I'd be offended if you didn't." He patted the pockets of his jacket, then reached into the breast pocket and took out a small pistol.

"Obviously I've returned the courtesy." Moriarty looked down at the gun and cocked it, then spun it round his finger for a few seconds. Eventually he stopped playing with the gun and held it properly. He started to meander aimlessly around the room.

"I like your rooms. They smell so..." He gestured with his free hand as if he wanted to come up with the best suitable description. "... manly," he finally said, his voice dropping an octave. "It's not stained by the presence of... woman... _wife_..."

Holmes gave him a quizzical look.

Moriarty wandered closer and stopped very close to him. "Oh, you _are_ in deep, aren't you?"

"I'm sure you've acquainted yourself with my rooms before now," Holmes replied.

"Well, you _are_ always away on your little adventures for The Strand. And there's no lovely wife here to... hold the ford. Tell me, does the illustrator travel with you? Do you have to pose..." Moriarty lifted his pistol, touched the end of the barrel to his chin while he steepled the fingers of his free hand against it. "... during your deductions?"

He lowered his hands and wandered towards the fireplace.

Sherlock too turned, keeping him in sight, following his every move. "I'm aware of all six occasions you have visited these apartments during my absence."

"I know you are," Moriarty said and he ran his fingers along the top of the mantelpiece. He then looked down at the dust he had gathered with his finger. "By the way, you have a surprisingly comfortable bed. Though I have to say, your other bed is much better. That one smells like _her_... smells like you _and_ her."

He looked round at him and smiled. Holmes made sure to maintain an impassive look on his face. He had no idea what he was rambling about now.

Moriarty looked back at his fingertips. "Did you know that dust is largely composed of human skin?"

"Yes."

Moriarty opened his mouth, put his fingertips to his tongue and licked them. Holmes, who had his hand still in his pocket, looked at him feeling slightly appalled.

"Doesn't taste the same, though. You want your skin fresh..." He flourished the hand he just licked in the air as if he was trying to describe the flavour of a certain dish. "... just a little crispy."

Holmes gestured to Watson's chair. "Won't you sit down?"

"That's all people really are, you know. Dust waiting to be distributed. And it gets everywhere..." He then stuck out is tongue and waggled it as if he wanted to get rid of the dust had had just licked. "... in every breath you take, dancing in every sunbeam, all used-up people."

Holmes arched an eyebrow at him. "Fascinating, I'm sure." He then gestured at Watson's chair again. "Won't you sit..."

Moriarty just blatantly ignored him and talked over him. He was now staring down into the muzzle of his own gun. "People, people, people. Can't keep anything shiny." He blew into the barrel a few times, lifted the gun and peered into it.

"D'you mind if I fire this, just to clean it out?" Moriarty asked casually. He turned the gun and pointed it at Holmes, who instantly grabbed his own gun and aimed it at his adversary.

They stood there, regarding each other for several seconds, the barrels of their pistols almost touching. After a long few moments, they almost simultaneously lifted their guns upwards, though Sherlock was the one who made the first move

Moriarty slowly swung his pistol around and lowered it to his side, while Holmes just dropped his own gun onto the nearby table.

"Exactly," Moriarty said approvingly. "Let's stop playing. We don't need toys to kill each other. Where's the intimacy in that?"

Holmes walked closer to him. "Sit down," he ordered him.

"Why? What do you want?"

"You chose to come here," Holmes said, still advancing on him.

"Not true. You know that's not true."

He stopped a pace away from Moriarty. They stared into each other's eyes. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"The truth," he stated simply.

Moriarty nodded. "That." He started to walk past him but turned and put his face close to his. "Truth's boring."

"I should like to know it all the same."

Holmes watched as Moriarty slowly walked across the room. "You didn't expect _me_ to turn up at the scene of the crime, did you? Poor old Sir Gerulf. He got what was coming to him." he tutted. "The way he treated Lady Schricken, it was appalling, wasn't it? So, tell me... How sorry are you... really... That you said 'no' to the lovely Kyrie, instead of 'yes'?"

Sherlock could feel a nerve twitch in his cheek and he breathed out audible. "You couldn't have killed him," he said, ignoring his remarks about Kyrie... He shook his head. Lady Schricken.

"Oh, you must be really sorry then, if you don't even want to talk about her," Moriarty said, turning back to face him. "And so what if I didn't kill him? Does it matter? Stop it. Stop this. You don't care about Sir Gerulf, _or_ the Bride or _any_ of it. There's only _one_ thing in this whole business that you find interesting. And then you want to return, as fast as you can... to _her_!"

"I know what you're doing," Holmes whispered at him with a smile, giving him an intense look. Suddenly the room started to rock as if there was an earthquake. The decanters and glasses rattled. Holmes shook his head and closed his eyes until the disturbance stopped.

Moriarty raised his gun. He held it up near his chin, the muzzle pointing upwards. "The Bride put a gun in her mouth and shot the back of her head off, and then she came back." He shrugged and moved the gun away a bit from his face. "Impossible, but she did it, and you need to know how. _How_...?

The room started to shake again.

"... don't you?" Moriarty said, looking at Sherlock with interest. "It's tearing your world apart _not knowing_."

The room continued to shake.

"You're trying to stop me..." Holmes accused him. He drew in a deep breath through his nose, closed his eyes and shook his head before opening them again. "... to distract me, derail me."

The shaking stopped; the room settled.

"Because doesn't this remind you of another case?"

Holmes furrowed his brows and closed his eyes again.

"Hasn't this all happened before? There's nothing new under the sun." Moriarty was taunting him. Holmes grimaced, keeping his eyes closed.

"What was it? What was it? What was that case? Huh? D'you remember?"

Holmes raised his hands and ran them over his face. Moriarty was right. There _was_ a case. And something here was wrong. No... not something. _Everything_!

"It's on the tip of my tongue," Moriarty said. The room started to shake again. "It's on the tip of my tongue."

Holmes lowered his hands and whispered the same words, "It's on the tip of my tongue." He opened his eyes again. The room was still shaking, but settled again as soon as he had his eyes open.

"It's on the tip..." Moriarty whispered and he raised the pistol, opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, resting the muzzling against it. He sank down to sit on the low table in front of the sofa. "... of my tongue." He continued in a barely audible whisper as the muzzle of his gun prevented his tongue to articulate the words correctly.

Again, the room started to shake and Holmes took another deep breath through his nose, causing the room to settle again.

"For the sake of Mrs Hudson's wallpaper, I must remind you that one false move with your finger and you _will_ be dead." He whispered the last word.

Moriarty, said something, something he couldn't quite catch because the gun was still resting on his stuck-out tongue. Something like... 'Ed ith the noo thethy'?

Holmes briefly closed his eyes and opened them again. "I'm sorry?"

Moriarty moved the gun away and pulled his tongue back into his mouth, his gun still next to his face, pointing upwards.

"Dead..." He paused for a long moment. "... is the new sexy."

Holmes could only stare at him in shock. Why did he recognise those words? Why did he remember those words? The room started to shake again, only this time the tremors were much more violent.

In a flash, Moriarty raised the gun again, opened his mouth, aimed the pistol into it and he pulled the trigger, firing the gun. He instantly fell backwards and blood sprayed through the air.

The room settled and Moriarty stood up, as if nothing was amiss. He just... shook himself down.

Holmes widened his eyes and looked in horror, seeing something that he couldn't possible be seeing. Yet, Moriarty stood there, alive, while he still had some blood spatter on his face.

"Well, I'll tell you what... _that_ rather blows the cobwebs away."

"How can you be alive?" Holmes asked him, looking at him intensely, his voice barely a whisper.

"How do I look, huh?" Moriarty asked him and he slowly turned around to reveal that the back of his head had been blown out. "Huh?"

Holmes stared at him, not believing what he was seeing. Again he knew that _something_ was very, very wrong.

"You can be honest. Is it noticeable?" Moriarty asked him, sounding a bit anxious like he was asking something as mundane as if the stain on his tie was noticeable. He moved his head around as though he wanted to give Holmes a good look at him.

"You blew your own brains out. How could you survive?" Holmes asked him softly, but still managing to put a lot of intensity in his words.

Moriarty ignored his question and gestured at his hair. "Well, maybe I could back-comb."

"I saw you die," Holmes said to him and he narrowed his eyes. " _Why_ aren't you dead?"

Moriarty stepped closer towards him. "Because it's not the fall that kills you, Sherlock." He gave him an intense look and started to whisper. "Of all people, _you_ should know that. It's not the fall. It's never the fall."

The glassware around the room started to clink and then smash. Moriarty spread his arms wide and gave him a manic grin. "It's the _landing_."

The tremors started again, but this time it seemed as if the entire world came crashing down. On a cabinet in the corner, a small model of an elephant got shaken off the side and smashed to the floor. The violent tremors threw him back and Holmes stumbled, falling backwards towards the fireplace, straight into his chair...

SSS

Kyrie could barely contain herself. It seemed to take forever for the plane to land already! When the plane finally touched down, Kyrie broke out in a run towards it. She was practically jumping up and down, impatient for the stairs to be lowered down.

The moment she could, Kyrie ran up the steps and went inside the plane. The smile died on her face however when she noticed the disorientated look on Sherlock's face.

"No, no, no, not now, not now," he whispered bewildered. Behind her, Mycroft entered the plane as well.

"Well, a somewhat shorter exile than we'd imagined, brother mine, although adequate given your levels of OCD."

Sherlock was breathing heavily and stared up at his brother with glassy eyes.

"I have to go back!" he insisted.

"What?" Mycroft asked confused.

"I was... I was nearly there! I nearly had it!" Sherlock rambled.

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Go back where? You didn't get very far," John said with a chuckle.

"Ricoletti and his abominable wife! Don't you understand?" Sherlock asked, getting more and more aggravated.

"No, of course we don't. You're not making any sense, Sherlock," Mary said, leaning around Kyrie to look at Sherlock.

"It was a case, a famous one from a hundred years ago, lodged in my hard drive. She seemed to be dead but then she came back."

"What, like Moriarty?" John asked, a puzzled look on his face.

"Shot herself in the head, yes, _exactly_ like Moriarty."

Mary sat down in the seat facing Sherlock. "But you've only just been told. We've only just found out. He's on every TV screen in the country."

Kyrie looked at him carefully... His glassy eyes with the feverish look, his clammy forehead... She swallowed hard and grabbed Mycroft's arm. When her brother-in-law looked down at her, she gave him a meaningful look.

Sherlock impatiently unclipped his seat belt. "Yes? So? It's been five minutes since Mycroft called." He looked up at his brother and wasn't even so much as acknowledging her presence. "What progress have you made? What have you been doing?"

John chuckled briefly. "More to the point, what have _you_ been doing?"

"I've been in my Mind Palace, of course..."

"Of course."

"... running an experiment. How would I have solved the crime if I'd been there in 1895?"

Kyrie silently lowered herself into a seat on the other side of the aisle from where Sherlock was sitting.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft said. Kyrie could hear the anger and disappointment seeping through in his voice.

Kyrie noticed how Mary took Sherlock's phone from the shelf beside his seat and started to look at it.

"I had all the details perfect," Sherlock complained.

Mycroft sank into the seat that was facing Kyrie. He put both of his hands on the handle of his umbrella and lowered his chin to rest on them.

Kyrie turned her head away. She didn't want anyone to see the tears that slowly fell from her eyes. She quickly wiped one of them away. As if Sherlock grabbing so easily for the sweets wasn't bad enough, he was also completely ignoring her. While not even ten minutes ago, she had told him she loved him.

"I was there, all of it, everything! I was immersed!" Sherlock said agitated.

Kyrie put the back of her hand to her mouth, it was trembling slightly.

"Of _course_ you were," Mycroft said softly."

"You've been reading John's blog... The story of how you met," Mary said affectionately.

"Helps me if I see myself through his eyes sometimes. I'm so much cleverer," Sherlock said, sounding very full of himself.

"You really think anyone's believing you?" Mycroft asked him.

"No, he can do this. I've seen it," John said, defending his best friend. "When he uses the Mind Palace I mean. It's like a whole world in his head."

"Yes, and I need to get back there," Sherlock said rather frustrated.

"The Mind Palace is a memory technique. I know what it can do. And I know what it most certainly cannot." Mycroft differed.

"Maybe there are one or two things that I know that you don't." Sherlock shot back.

"Oh, there _are,_ " Mycroft said gravely. Kyrie closed her eyes. She knew what he was getting at. "Did you make a list?"

Kyrie couldn't see his face, but Sherlock's silence was telling enough.

"You've put on weight. That waistcoat's clearly newer than the jacket..."

"Stop this. Just _stop_ it. _Did_ you make a list?"

"Of what?" Sherlock bit out.

" _Everything_ , Sherlock. Everything you've taken."

"No, it's not _that,_ " John interjected. "He goes into a sort of trance. I've seen him do it."

Kyrie snorted with laughter. If Sherlock noticed, he didn't acknowledge it. She could hear how Sherlock took something from his pocket. It sounded like paper. It dropped to the floor. John picked it up and unfolded it.

Kyrie grimaced at the silence. It was pretty telling.

"We have an agreement, my brother and I, ever since that day," Mycroft told the others, his voice soft but grim. "Wherever I find him, whatever back alley or doss house..." Mycroft sunk back in his seat. "... there will always be a list."

"He couldn't have taken all of that in the last five minutes," John said, waving the paper at Mycroft.

Mycroft huffed. "He was high before he got on the plane."

Kyrie clenched her jaw. What a fool she'd been. She hadn't looked him in the eyes, had she? When she was professing her love to him... he had been standing there, high as a kite. For the past week, she had been worried sick about him. And the moment he got out? The moment that was supposed to be their last goodbye? Sherlock Holmes had dosed himself up on drugs! Kyrie felt nauseated.

"He didn't seem high," Mary said. Kyrie could hear she was typing on Sherlock's phone.

"Nobody deceives like an addict," Mycroft said in a scathing voice.

"I'm not an addict. I'm a user. I alleviate _boredom_ and occasionally heighten my thought processes," Sherlock said in a soft voice. He sounded high as a kite as well.

"For God's sake! This could kill you! You could die!" John burst out in anger.

That was it. She had to get out. Kyrie couldn't breath, the atmosphere in the plane was suffocating her and she had to throw up.

"Controlled usage is not usually fatal...," Sherlock said as Kyrie bolted from the seat. She pushed John forcefully aside and made a dash for the entrance. Just as she was about to descend the steps, she heard Sherlock call her name. He sounded rather dazed.

She didn't bother to turn back but raced down the steps until she reached solid ground. She instantly threw herself to her knees and braced her hands against the tarmac. She regurgitated the entire contents of her stomach, which wasn't all that much, with a violence that shocked her. It was as if her body wanted to disgorge the very memory of her telling Sherlock she loved him, while he'd been too high to really notice.

" _I don't know how to respond to that."_ He'd been too high to respond to that! She wiped her mouth and raised herself to a seated position. And then she cried.

After a while, Kyrie could hear someone walking down the steps of the plane. Considering it sounded more like a waddle, it was Mary. When Kyrie looked up at her, she saw how her friend's face was filled with pity.

Mary walked over to her and grimaced while sitting down next to Kyrie. "That bad, huh? You've been a wreck of nerves this entire week," she said, looking at the puddle of vomit.

"I hate him," she whispered.

Mary chuckled. "No, you don't. You love that man to bits. He's an arse and sometimes a bloody annoying unfeeling arse, but you've always known that and you still love him. What has he done this time? Is it the drugs?"

"Partially," Kyrie admitted. She then told Mary what really hurt her to the point she'd gotten physically ill. The fact that Sherlock, knowing they just had a few moments to say goodbye for ever, had used drugs, right before that final goodbye took place.

She had stood there in front of him, her heart on her sleeve, telling him that she loved him. And he'd been baked like a cake. And he just told all of them he used drugs against boredom and hadn't even so much as acknowledged her presence.

"What a cock!" Mary said. "I totally get why you're angry with him..." She paused for a moment before she gave Kyrie a pointed look. "Want me to shoot him again?"

Kyrie looked up in shock and then started to laugh when she saw the smile on Mary's face.

"No," she said, laughing through her tears. "Though he definitely deserves it this time!"

"Yes, he does." Mary agreed with her. "You still love him though."

At those words Kyrie started crying again. "Aw, I'm sorry, sweetie. Come here," Mary said in a soft voice and she wrapped her arm around Kyrie so she could cry against her shoulder.

"I don't think I can do this any more," Kyrie sobbed. "It's like he never learns and thinks I will just accept everything with a smile."

"Kyrie... What are you saying?" Mary asked softly.

"I don't know," Kyrie sniffed. "I don't know anything any more. Only that in the past few years my heart has gotten trampled over more times than I'd like to admit."

"But... you love him!"

Kyrie said nothing for a moment. "I do. I always will. But... I-I don't think it's working out," she whispered. "I think... I think I have to leave him."

Mary was silent and Kyrie started crying again.


	78. Down the Rabbit Hole

**A/N Hello all. Thank you so much for your support, reviews and kind PM's! Don't worry, I'm not thinking about abandoning this story. Also, I'm still about 8 chapters ahead of you guys, so even though writing is slow for me at the moment, I can still post the updates of what I have so far. Until you guys are completely caught up with me, that's when you have to wait longer for new chapters.**

 **Anyway, reviews first!**

 **Thewickedprinces He's just a bit dense and slow! His brain is so fast, his emotions need time to catch up ;-)**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Oh, this was just the scene that lead to the scene that kept me up all night. As the author, I feel everything that they do and... it was a lot! As for Kyrie leaving, you know she always keeps a window open, but he better not fuck up again. And he really needs to bring his A game if she is going to forgive him!**

 **IronLace Thank you! It really is so great to wake up and read reviews like these and feel supported, even when at times I just feel 'blegh'. And you are so right. He's definitely not an easy person to be with and to love. The heart is cruel sometimes. Most of the emotional scenes I write, I write with David Garrett playing in the background. So many great violin covers. I would be hard pressed to pick a favourite. That man makes love to his violin!**

 **Artemis7448 Yeah she's not in a very good place right now. Where Sherlock let's his head rule his heart, Kyrie is the exact opposite and let's her heart rule over her head. Let's hope it still contains enough love to forgive him one last time, eh?**

 **Annie Thank you! Feeling a little better, not planning on writing a lot tonight. Will be having dinner soon ;-)**

 **Companion Teresa You are welcome! I do love to write, but as I've been pretty much been writing none-stop (between work and the girls) for several months... I am reaching the point I just need to take a breather!**

 **DreamonAlina I will tell Kyrie you are not happy. She'll be glad to know you understand her position, but you are write, you didn't read so many chapters just for them to break up right at the start of the last season!**

 **EllemichelleP Sorry!**

 **Elbafo Sherlock really doesn't like hospitals. That even gets worse! I'm so happy you said 'small mentions, yet powerful in their consequences'. He's still in a learning curve. Then again, so was yours ;-)**

 **I usually try to write 6 pages to keep up with the 6 pages updates. That's a bit undoable for me right now. So, my goal is to write at least 1 page (hopefully 2) tonight.**

 **Anyway, here's a new chapter for you!**

SSS

"Morphine or cocaine? Which is it today?"

The words slowly drifted towards him and penetrated the haze in his drug addled brain. Holmes' fingers twitched as the sitting room door slammed closed.

" _Answer_ me, damn it!" Watson suddenly yelled from somewhere inside the room.

Holmes jolted awake. He blinked his eyes and noticed he had toppled over. His head was resting on a cushion. When he looked at his hand, he saw the empty syringe and its case were lying near it.

"Moriarty was here," Holmes said.

Holmes could hear the rustling noise as Watson took off his gloves. "Moriarty's dead," Watson averred.

Holmes waved his hand vaguely and rolled a little more onto his back.

"I was on a jet," he said.

"A what?" Watson asked.

Holmes raised his head. "You were there, and Mycroft. Your wife. My wife." He propped himself up onto his elbow, while Watson walked across towards the fireplace.

"You haven't left these rooms, Holmes," Watson said. "You are not married and you... haven't... moved. Now, tell me, morphine or cocaine?"

Holmes ran his hand over his hair. "Cocaine," he admitted and he dragged himself onto his knees. "A seven percent solution."

He sat back again and furrowed his brows. "I think I hurt her."

"Who?" Watson asked. Holmes looked up at him and noticed he was scowling.

"My wife," he said. "I-I ignored her, in the jet. I don't know why; I just did. It... it hurt her."

Watson didn't reply, only continued to stare at him with a scowl on his face.

Holmes rolled his eyes. He picked up the syringe and put it into the case. It took a bit of effort, but he then stood up and offered the case to Watson.

"Would you care to try it?" Holmes asked him.

"No, but I would quite like to find every ounce of the stuff in your possession and pour it out of the window," he said tightly.

"I should be inclined to stop you," Holmes said with a smirk.

Watson looked at him, his eyes blazing and he was breathing quite heavily. "Then you would be reminded... quite forcibly... which of us is a soldier and which of us a drug addict."

"You're not a soldier. You are a doctor." Holmes reminded him.

Watson stepped closer to him. "No, an _Army_ doctor, which means I could break every bone in your body, while naming them."

Holmes looked slightly taken aback before he recomposed himself. "My dear Watson, you are allowing emotion to cloud your judgement."

Watson pointed to the syringe. "Never on a case," he said, breathing harshly. "You promised me. Never on a case."

"No, I just said that in one of your stories." Holmes countered, smiling at his friend.

"Listen," Watson said, sounding angrier with the minute and jabbing his finger at him. He was breathing rapidly. "I'm happy to play the fool for you. I will run along behind you like some halfwit, making _you_ look clever, if that's what you need, but dear GOD ABOVE..." He yelled those last words. "You will hold yourself to a higher standard."

"Why?" Holmes demanded.

"Because people need you to," Watson replied.

"What people? Why? Because of your idiot stories?" Holmes scoffed.

"No! Because you have a wife who loves you deeply. Now and always. Remember? She told you herself. What, were you too high to notice when she bared her soul in front of you? Oh, right... You gave her a kiss. Because that is what you do, don't you? You kiss her when topics come up that you don't want to talk about. So, you distract her with a kiss."

Holmes stared at Watson in shock. He blinked his eyes rapidly as he had trouble processing the words.

"You don't deserve her, Sherlock. You never have. You are just a fortunate arse because Kyrie is crazy enough and in love enough to always, _always_ forgive you. But you may have gone too far now."

"What-What did you say?" Holmes said, completely bewildered.

"I said, 'Yes, because of my idiot stories.' Great, you don't even listen to a word I'm saying!" Watson said, spreading his hands and rolling his eyes at the heavens.

"Yes, I do!"

"Mr Holmes!" Billy yelled from outside the room. Soon after the sitting room door opened and the houseboy ran in. "Mr Holmes! Telegram, Mr Holmes!"

He handed the telegram to Holmes and ran out again. Holmes opened the telegram. His hands weren't quite as steady as he would have liked, because his mind was still reeling. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, then read the telegram.

The moment he actually understood the words he was reading, Holmes gave Watson a startled look. Watson however responded quite blasé. "What is it? What's wrong this time?"

"It's Mary," Holmes replied and he walked to the open door of the sitting room.

"Mary? What about her?"

"It's entirely possible she's in danger." Holmes explained while shrugging off his dressing gown.

"Danger?" Watson parroted him.

"There's not a moment to lose," Holmes said while hanging up the garment.

"Is this the cocaine talking?"

Holmes took down his dress coat and put it on over his stylish satin moss green waistcoat. He quickly patted his lower chest to check if his pocket watch was still in place. He only felt satisfied the moment his fingers brushed against the delicate metal.

"What danger could Mary be in? I'm sure she's just visiting with friends," Watson told him.

"Come on!" Holmes ordered his friend in a stern voice. He instantly hurried down the stairs, trusting that Watson would be quick to follow. Which he was. Near the bottom, Holmes grabbed the bannister rail to support himself as he stumbled because of a stab of pain in his chest. He grimaced but ignored the pain and continued into the hall while buttoning his coat.

"What is happening?" Watson asked him. He'd obviously seen his discomfort. "Are you even in a fit state?"

"For Mary, of course. Never doubt that, Watson. Never that."

"And for _your_ wife?"

Holmes whipped around. "What?"

Watson gave him a confused look. "Nothing!"

Holmes whipped around again and instantly doubled over, groaning in pain.

"Holmes!" Watson cried out.

He shot forward to help his friend, but Holmes shook him off. "I'm fine!"

Holmes was still breathing heavily when he reached out and picked up his top hat.

Watson immediately snatched it away from him. "Not that one," he said, tossing the top hat along he hallway and he picked up the deerstalker. "This one."

Holmes eyed the thing quizzically. "Why?"

"You're Sherlock Holmes. Wear the damn hat. And Kyrie loves it when you do." He shoved the hat against his chest. Holmes decided to ignore Watson's increasing puzzling remarks, as if he personally _knew_ the woman on the jet, his wife. He merely glowered at him and put on the deerstalker. They hurried out into the street, which was bustling with pedestrians.

Watson called out loudly as Holmes ran to the kerb and urgently looked up and down the road.

"Cab? Cab!" Watson cried out.

Thankfully, it didn't take Watson long to find them a Clarence cab and soon it was racing through the countryside with them, the horse going at a fast canter. Holmes looked out of the window and noticed the sun painting the sky pink as it was almost night time.

"So, tell me. Where is she?" Watson demanded.

Holmes buried his head in one hand in an attempt to dissuade his friend from asking pointless question. Alas, he was not in luck.

"You must tell me. What's going on?" Watson insisted.

Holmes raised his head in anger but did not look at him. "Oh, good old Watson! How would we fill the time if you didn't ask questions?" he asked annoyed.

"Sherlock, tell me where my bloody wife is, you pompous prick, or I'll punch your lights out!"

That sounded an awful lot like Watson's future counterpart! Holmes looked round at him, startled, but it was just his old friend Watson who was staring at him with a stern look on his face.

"Holmes! Where is she?"

"A de-sanctified church. She thinks she's found the solution, and for no better reason than that, she's put herself in the path of considerable danger." Holmes finally replied before he looked away. "What an excellent choice of wife," he added.

"Right back at you. Took you bloody long enough to open your eyes and appreciate your own wife."

Holmes closed his eyes, hearing again the voice of – John. He wondered... He slowly took out his gold pocket watch and opened it. Inside was not the familiar photograph of Lady Schricken, when she was still Kyrie Ellison, but her future counterpart... Kyrie Holmes, in full and vibrant colour!

His heart constricted painfully when he saw the young woman smiling up at him with open adoration. Her laugh intensified the small cleft in her chin, though it really looked more like a little dimple. Her eyes were vibrant and... blue, sparkling with deep violet stars and full with promise of love.

He closed the pocket watch harshly. Holmes looked outside of the window, his lips pulled in a tight line. He could not help but resent his own future counterpart, for having had the courage to make the decision he should have made himself.

The carriage continued on towards the church, set … somewhere... in the middle of nowhere. Soon after their arrival, they ran through the cloisters. Mrs Watson was already waiting for them, hiding behind a pillar. She stepped out when they reached her. Watson jumped the moment he laid eyes on her.

"What the devil?!" he exclaimed.

She pointed further into the building. "I've found them," she said.

They paused when they heard a distant chanting. Mrs Watson led them toward the sound. They cautiously descended some stone steps, where two small metal braziers with tripod bases were burning.

"What is all this, Mary?" Watson asked his wife, whispering.

She turned to look at him. "This is the heart of it all, John, the heart of the conspiracy," she whispered back.

They advanced further into the vaults. The chanting grew louder. Holmes perked his ears. The chanting sounded distinctly Latin. And the voices... all female.

They encountered more burning braziers along the route. Mrs Watson turned and beckoned him and Watson to continue to follow her.

At some point they reached a pair of arched stone windows. Mrs Watson and Holmes went to one of them as Watson went to the other. As they watched they noticed many figures process past in another corridor across the gap.

The figures were all dressed dark blue robes, wearing pointed conical hats over their heads, obscuring their faces.

"Great Scott, what is this place?" Watson whispered and he turned to look at his wife. "And what the devil are you doing here?"

"I've been making enquiries. Mr Holmes asked me," Mrs Watson averred.

"Holmes, how could you?!" Watson turned to look at his friend.

"No, not him. The _clever_ one." Mrs Watson differed.

Holmes kept an impassive look on his face as he watched the figures.

"It seemed obvious to me that this business could not be managed alone. My theory is that Mrs Ricoletti had help – help from her friends," she explained.

"Bravo, Mary." He suddenly looked at her as her previous words finally caught up with his brain. "The clever one?" he said, sounding a bit miffed.

"Oh." Mrs Watson mouthed at him, silently, but in good humour.

"I-I thought I was losing you," Watson told her quietly.

Holmes frowned and glanced across to his friend. What nonsense was he babbling about _now_?

"I thought perhaps we were neglecting each other."

"Well, _you're_ the one who moved out," he retorted. He was not accepting _any_ blame that Watson wanted to lay at his feet!

"I was talking to Mary," Watson said. Hmm, he sounded a bit annoyed.

"You're working for Mycroft?" he asked, redirecting his attention his wife.

"He likes to keep an eye on his mad sibling."

"And he had a spy to hand," Holmes said a bit nettled. He glanced over towards Watson. "Has it never occurred to you that your wife is excessively skilled for a nurse?"

"Of course it hasn't..."

Holmes rolled his eyes when he could just hear her smirk. "Because he knows what a nurse is capable of. When did it occur to you?" she asked him.

"Only now, I'm afraid." He was loathe to admit.

Mrs Watson turned to look at him. "Must be difficult being the slow little brother." She smiled at him, letting him know she was only jesting.

"Time I sped up. Enough chatter. Let's concentrate."

They turned to continue watching the procession again.

"Yes, all right. What's all this about? What do they want to accomplish?" Mrs Watson asked.

"Why don't we go and find out?" Holmes suggested. He instantly turned and hurried away, knowing the Watsons would not waste time in following him. They ran through the vaults, passing large fires burning around various columns which supported the roof, until eventually they reached a small chapel where the robed figures had gathered, still chanting.

Holmes entered through the doorway behind them and noticed a suspended gong to one side. He smirked and picked up its mallet, to then strike the gong loudly. The figures instantly stopped chanting and turned to face him, creating a neat little pathway as they filed in two rows.

"Sorry. I could never resist a gong." He turned to the gathering. "Or a touch of the dramatic."

"Never have guessed," Mrs Watson said rather sarcastically.

Holmes walked forward. "Though it seems you share my enthusiasm in that regard," he said, looking at the robed figures, ignoring Mrs Watson's little quip.

He walked through the middle of the crowd. The figures stood silently, their attention focussed at him.

"Excellent," Holmes said. "Superlative theatre. I _applaud_ the spectacle." He smiled, turned back and slowly walked towards the doorway.

He took a deep breath and smiled. He _loved_ this part! "Emelia Ricoletti shot herself, then apparently returned from the grave and killed her husband. So, how was it done? Let's take the events in order, shall we?"

"Mrs Ricoletti gets everyone's attention in very efficient fashion." Holmes explained, imagining The Bride as she was waving her gun around, aiming randomly at several passers by until she, or so it seemed, shot herself.

"She places one of the revolvers in her mouth while actually firing the other into the ground. An accomplice sprays the curtains with blood and thus her apparent suicide is witnessed by the frightened crowd below."

"A substitute corpse bearing a strong resemblance to Mrs Ricoletti takes her place and is later transported to the morgue. A grubby little suicide of little interest to Scotland Yard. No one even noticed it wasn't the _real_ Mrs Ricoletti."

"Meanwhile the real Mrs Ricoletti slips away. Now comes the really clever part," Holmes said, unable to not sound impressed. "Mrs Ricoletti persuaded a cab driver – someone who knew her – to intercept her husband outside his favourite opium den. The perfect stage for a perfect drama."

He imagined the moment when Emilia, who was supposed to be dead, confronted her husband while theatrically dressed in her wedding gown and wearing a veil over her face, and pointed a shotgun at her husband.

"A perfect positive identification and the late Mrs Ricoletti has returned from the grave and with a little skilled make-up, you have nothing less than the wrath of a vengeful ghost.

"There was only one thing left to do. She knew that now her body would be examined more carefully. Mrs Ricoletti... had to die for real because her own body would have to substitute for the corpse in the morgue. This time, should anyone attempt to identify her, it would be positively, absolutely her."

"But why would she do that – die to prove a point?" Mrs Watson asked.

"Every great cause has martyrs; every war has suicide missions – and make no mistake, this is war," Holmes explained. "One half of the human race at war with the other."

He walked back along the crypt, looking at the robed figures on either side.

"The invisible army hovering at our elbow, attending to our homes, raising our children, ignored, patronised, disregarded, not allowed so much as a _vote_..."

As if on cue, all the robed figured reached up and began to remove their hats. When they pulled them off their heads, they revealed that each one of them was a woman.

"...but an army nonetheless, ready to rise up in the best of causes, to put right an injustice as old as humanity itself. So, you see, Watson, Mycroft was right. This is a war we _must_ lose."


	79. Do Not Forget Me

**A/N Finally, Sherlock comes to the right conclusion. Bit late though. Hopefully not too late.**

 **I'm thrilled you all liked 'present time John' and 'present time Kyrie' seeping through to Sherlock/Holmes in his Mind Palace. It really was a trip down the rabbit hole for him. Still is in a way.**

 **I managed to reach my goal last night. 2.5 new pages. Won't get that far this evening though. I'm again hoping for at least 1 page to make sure I get something done at least.**

 **Enjoy this new chapter. Let me know your thoughts/feelings on this one ;-)**

SSS

"She was dying," Watson suddenly said.

"Who was?" Holmes asked.

"Emelia Ricoletti. There were clear signs of consumption. I doubt she was long for this world."

"So, she decided to make her death count. She was already familiar with the secret societies of America and was able to draw on their methods of fear and intimidation to publicly – very publicly – confront Sir Gerulf Schricken with the sins of his past."

"He knew her out in the States."

Holmes frowned. That voice... it sounded oddly familiar.

"Promised her everything..."

His eyes grew wide when he recognised the owner of the voice... Hooper, decidedly more _feminine_ than he was used to.

"... marriage, position, and then he had his way with her and threw her over, left her abandoned and penniless. And you know, _very well_ , how he then managed to get his wife and how he treated _her_."

"Hooper!" Holmes exclaimed. He shook his head when he saw brief flashes of... _Molly_ Hooper, slapping him in the face. When she wanted to lash out again, another hand shot out, preventing Molly from slapping him again. He focussed on the face of the other person and felt like he got punched in the gut. Lady Schricken... no, Kyrie Holmes... his wife! Ugh, this was starting to get confusing!

"Holmes," Miss Hooper acknowledged him.

"For the record, Holmes, she didn't have me fooled," Watson said.

Holmes turned and stared at him in shock and was confronted with a rather self-satisfied looking Watson.

"Emelia thought that she'd found happiness with Ricoletti, but he was a brute too. She was our friend," Hooper said. "You have no idea how that bastard treated her."

"But... the Bride, Holmes. We saw her."

"Yes, Watson, we did. But the sound of breaking glass? Not a window."

Watson frowned quizzically at him.

"Just an old theatrical trick. It's called Pepper's Ghost. A simple reflection, in glass, of a living breathing person. Their only mistake was breaking the glass when they removed it."

Holmes slowly paced along the crypt. "Look around you. This room is full of Brides. Once she had risen, anyone could be her. The avenging ghost – a legend to strike terror into the heart of any man with malicious intent; a spectre to stalk those unpunished brutes whose reckoning is long overdue."

He imagined The Bride, floating closer towards Lady Schricken and sir Gerulf inside the Schricken Maze.

"A league of furies awakened."

It could have been Hooper, it could have been any one of them... Dressed in a wedding gown, their faces made white with make up, their lips painted red and smeared.

His face twisted in disgust as he imagined how sir Gerulf forced himself onto the lovely Lady Schricken... Kyrie... who was supposed to be his! He'd flatly turned her down, without even so much as giving her a second thought... Until he opened that damned watch! He could feel his throat convulse painfully; it became hard to swallow.

"The women I... _we_ have lied to, betrayed, the women we have ignored and disparaged. Once the idea exists, it cannot be killed."

His gaze sharpened a bit with a hawk like intensity. "This is the work of a single-minded person, someone who knew first-hand about Sir Gerulf's mental and physical cruelty. A dark secret, kept from all but her closest friends..."

He could hear footsteps falling behind him.

"... including Emelia Ricoletti..."

The footsteps advanced on him.

"... the woman her husband wronged all those years before, when he cruelly took away her innocence... Like he had done to her as well." He breathed sharply through his nose. "If one disregards the ghost, there is only one suspect."

He turned towards the person who was approaching behind him. Unsurprisingly, it was a woman, dressed as The Bride and wearing a veil.

"Isn't that right, Lady Schricken?"

The Bride stopped close to him.

"One small detail doesn't quite make sense to me, however. Why engage _me_ to prevent a murder you intended to commit? Hmm?"

The Bride huffed out a laugh from underneath the veil.

"It doesn't quite make sense; this doesn't quite make sense," The Bride said, mocking him by impersonating him in an overly exaggerated way. " _Of course_ it doesn't make sense."

Holmes blinked a couple of times. Why was he hearing a male voice? And why did that voice sound so eerily familiar?

"It's not real," The Bride said and he snored as if he was bored. "Oh, Sherlock."

The Bride took hold of the veil and flipped it back onto his head, holding it there so he could reveal his face. There was dried blood in the middle of his upper and lower lips... still there from when he had shot himself in the mouth.

Holmes gasped when he stood face to face with his enemy, Moriarty.

"Peekaboo," Moriarty said.

Holmes stared at him in shock. "No. No, not you. It can't be you."

"I mean, come on, be serious. Costumes, the gong. Speaking as a criminal mastermind, we don't really have gongs, or special outfits."

Holmes suddenly felt a bit faint and he closed his eyes. He grimaced when John Watson, not... Watson Watson... was shining something into his eyes he knew to be a penlight.

" _What the hell is going on?"_ John asked... someone.

Holmes opened his eyes again and peered at Moriarty, still not believing what he was seeing.

"Is this silly enough for you yet? Gothic enough? Mad enough, even for you? It doesn't make sense, Sherlock, because it's _not real_." He started to whisper. "None of it."

He shook his head when he saw the light flash into his eyes again as John looked at him closely.

" _What's he talking about?"_

"This is all in your mind," Moriarty said, still whispering.

Holmes clamped his eyes shut again.

" _Sherlock."_

There was that light again.

"Holmes!" Watson, his Watson called out to him. Or was it John?

"You're dreaming." Moriarty spoke so softly, Holmes could hardly understand him.

His eyes suddenly flared wide open and he gasped out a long breath.

" _Is he dreaming?"_ Mary asked.

His vision started to clear, but his brain still felt a bit fuzzy. He saw Mary's face swimming in and out of view as John kept bothering him with that infernal penlight of his.

Sherlock realised he was lying on a bed somewhere. A hospital? Ugh, please, not a hospital!

"And there he is," Mycroft drawled sarcastically. His face looked blurry too. "Thought we'd lost you for a moment. May I just check, is this what you mean by 'controlled usage'?"

Sherlock waved his comment away. "Mrs Emelia Ricoletti," he said a bit blearily. "I need to know where she was buried."

"What, a hundred and twenty years ago?!"

He struggled to sit up as John tried to steady him.

"That would take weeks to find, if those records even exist. Even with my resources..."

Mary looked down at her phone. "Got it," she said.

Sherlock smirked when he heard his past counterpart say, _"What an excellent choice of wife."_

Speaking of which... He looked around the room and found himself to be missing a certain presence. He shook his head. He would deal with that later. First he had to solve this case!

SSS

Some time later, John and Mary got out of a police car as they followed Sherlock. He'd just taken a spade from the boot of another police car. Dressed in his cherished coat and scarf, he felt more like himself again and he lead them into a cemetery.

Mycroft and Greg Lestrade followed them and there were several uniformed police officers in attendance.

"I don't get it. How is this relevant?" John asked.

"I need to know I was right, then I'll be sure."

"You mean how Moriarty did it?" Mary said.

"Yes."

"But none of that really happened. It was in your head."

"My investigation was the fantasy. The crime happened exactly as I explained. Just a few small... differences maybe."

"The stone for Mrs Ricoletti was erected by a group of her friends," Mary told him.

"I don't know what you think you'll find here." Mycroft was following them and grumbling all the way.

"I need to try!" Sherlock cried out.

They walked past the rear of the gravestone they were looking for. Sherlock read the words that were carved in the front:

EMELIA RICOLETTI

BELOVED SISTER

FAITHFUL BEYOND DEATH

DIED DECEMBER 18 1894

AGED 26

Soon after, Sherlock was standing beside Emelia's grave holding the spade. The others were standing on the path at the foot of the grave. Some of the police officers were nearby as well; one of them was also holding a spade.

"Mrs Ricoletti was buried here, but what happened to the other one, the corpse they substituted for her after the so-called suicide?"

"They'd move it. Of course they would," John said.

"But where?" Sherlock questioned him.

"Well, not here!"

"But that... that's exactly what they _must_ have done. The conspirators had someone on the inside. They found a body, just like Molly Hooper found a body for me when I..."

John threw him a murderous look and Mark raised her eyes to the heavens. _Right_. Sherlock abruptly stopped talking, refraining himself from finishing that sentence. He looked down, feeling a shade bit guilty again.

"Yeah, well, we don't need to go into all that again, do we?"

He shifted his grip on the spade; he was ready to start digging.

"You're not seriously gonna do this?" John asked him incredulously.

"It's why we came here! I _need_ to know." Sherlock bent forward to the grave.

John turned away. "Spoken like an addict."

Sherlock instantly straightened himself to look at him. "This is important to me!"

John turned back at him. "Your _wife_ is important to you. This? This is just you needing a fix."

"John..."

"Moriarty's back. We have a case! We have a real-life problem right now."

"Getting to that! It's next on the list! Just let me do this." He bent to the grave again.

"No!" John bellowed. "Everyone always lets you do whatever you want, even Kyrie. That's _how_ you got in this state."

Again, Sherlock straightened himself up again. "John, please..."

"I'm not playing this time, Sherlock, not any more," John said. "And guess who's no longer playing either? Mm? Kyrie, Sherlock. Or have you really not noticed she's not with us?"

"Of course I have!" Sherlock spat, "I will straighten it out with her, first I..."

"She's thinking about _divorce_ , Sherlock, if that even _means_ anything to you." It was Mary who snapped at him this time.

That got his attention. He blinked a couple of times. Then he smiled and shook his head. "No," he said. "This is Kyrie we're talking about! She will understand when I explain. I'm so close! I can't just leave now! It's _just_ a grave!"

"Wow," John scoffed. "Never thought you'd be willing to gamble with the one thing I _know_ you value most in your life. You really willing to find out if Kyrie will forgive you, again?"

"She _will_ ," Sherlock said, his mouth tight in a grim line. "She'll understand. She always does."

"When you can think straight again, give me a call. I _will_ tell you 'I told you so', though."

John then took Mary's arm. "I'm taking Mary home."

"You're what?" Mary asked instantly.

"Mary's taking me home." John amended himself.

"Better," Mary said with a satisfied smile.

They walked away. Mycroft walked over to where they were standing.

"He's right, you know."

"So what if he's right? He's always right. It's boring," Sherlock yelled.

"Even the part about Kyrie leaving you? Is that boring too?"

"No, of course not! But she won't! She'll understand I had to do this and why. You _know_ she will!"

He paused and looked down. "Will you help me?" he asked his brother softly.

"Help you wreck your own marriage?" Mycroft drawled, though his eyes were sad, "Sure, why not. Let's see how well you do once you realise what you've squandered."

Mycroft gestured down to the grave. "Cherchez la femme," he said, sounding very tired.

Sherlock nodded at him, he raised the spade and plunged it into the earth.

SSSS

They spent hours digging, and digging. Darkness had fallen and portable lights had been set up to illuminate the area.

Sherlock, had stripped himself down to just shirt and trousers and he had rolled up his shirt sleeves. He'd discarded his coat and jacket at least a few hours earlier. At the moment, he found himself almost neck deep in the grave as he shovels out a new spadeful of earth. Next to him Lestrade, also in shirtsleeves, was digging as well.

Both of them were wearing thick gloves while Mycroft stood next to the grave, shining a torch down into the hole. He was... offering light and... mental support? He'd always hated doing 'legwork' or 'arm and elbow work in this case.

Sherlock and Lestrade shovelled out a few more loads and then, when Sherlock plunged the spade down again, it hit something with a hollow thump. He slowly straightened up... They had reached the coffin.

It took them some time, but together they managed to haul the coffin out of the grave. They bent down to settle the coffin to the ground. Lestrade quickly used a crowbar to lever up one end of the coffin lid and then handed it over to Sherlock so he could do the same to the other end.

They lifted off the lid and set it down beside the coffin. Mycroft illuminated the inside of the coffin with his torch and revealed a very rotted almost skeletal corpse with worms wriggling in the eye sockets of the skull.

Hanging limply around the corpse, were the decayed remains of a wedding dress. Lestrade stayed back and Sherlock, who was leaning over the coffin, instantly put the back of his hand to his nose and mouth. _Good grief, what a stench!_

"Urgh!"He exclaimed.

Mycroft directed the light from his torch closer to the coffin. Sherlock knelt down beside the coffin and, breathing heavily, he started to rummage around and under the corpse, searching for a second body. It soon became clear however, that there wasn't a second one.

"Oh dear. The cupboard is bare."

Sherlock moved back on his knees and stared into the grave. "They must have buried it underneath," he said, realising what they must have done. "They must have buried it underneath the coffin."

He stood up and energetically leapt over the coffin, jumped down into the grave and started grabbing handfuls of earth, tossing them over the side of the hole.

Sherlock could hear Lestrade and his brother approaching the grave.

"Bad luck, Sherlock," Lestrade said.

Was that pity he heard in his voice? Sherlock pulled his mouth in a tight line and continued to frantically scrabble in the grave.

"Maybe they got rid of the body in another way," Lestrade suggested.

"More than likely. At any rate, it was a very long time ago. We do have slightly more pressing matters to hand, little brother. Moriarty, back from the dead? And Kyrie, possibly filing for a divorce this instant?"

Sherlock immediately stopped pawing handfuls of earth together when the meaning of the words finally registered, _really_ registered. He looked at his hands. What the hell was he doing? He shouldn't even be here!

He had already solved the case and he was right; he _knew_ he was right! Finding the bones of the second corpse would not make him any _more_ right. Ergo, this entire expedition was unimportant and irrelevant. Potentially losing his wife, however, was not!

He briefly closed his eyes when he realised, to full effect, what exactly he stood to lose if he continued down this path. He then looked up at his brother. "Mycroft," he whispered. "I think I fucked everything up again. What do I do?"

" _Do not forget me."_

Sherlock felt a shiver run up and down his spine, hearing the harsh female whisper. He swallowed hard and turned. _No, this can't be happening. This can't be real!_

" _Do not forget me."_

Sherlock frowned at the sound of creaking bones. He suddenly heard a furious female scream and his eyes widened in terror as the skeleton corpse hurled itself to him and landed into the grave, right on top of him. It flattened him to the floor...

... and Holmes started violently, clutching at his chest in terror and found himself lying on his side on a narrow rocky ledge. Water was pouring over him as if a heavy downpour was raining down on him.

He sighed in exasperation as he propped himself up onto one elbow. "Oh, I see. Still not awake, am I?"


	80. Maybe The Last Time

**A/N Okay, sorry for not responding to reviews. I'm updating this chapter right as I'm getting ready for work. Just wanted to get this out ;-) Sorry if there are more mistakes than usual, just giving this a wee quick glance before uploading it. This contains part 1 of the scene that kept me up all night, that one night...**

 **I would really, really, really appreciate all of your thoughts and feelings on this and the next chapter!**

SSS

 _He sighed in exasperation as he propped himself up onto one elbow. "Oh, I see. Still not awake, am I?"_

He shifted his position and turned to look along the rocky ledge. He looked behind him, beyond the end of the ledge a few feet away, and he saw a massive waterfall plunging over the side of the mountain... _The Reichenbach Falls._

He turned his had and saw how, a few yards in the other direction, Professor Moriarty stood looking at him.

In the distance, a full moon lit up the night sky. Holmes grimaced and pulled down the visor of his deerstalker hat, trying to keep the water out of his eyes.

"Too deep, Sherlock. Way too deep," Moriarty told him.

Holmes stumbled to his feet.

"Congratulations. You'll be the first man in history to be buried in his own Mind Palace."

Holmes gestured behind him. "The setting's a shade melodramatic, don't you think?" he commented.

"For you and me?" He looked up at the spray splashing all over him. "Not at all."

"What are you?" Holmes asked him.

"You know what I am. I'm Moriarty." He gave him a pointed look. "The Napoleon of crime," he added sarcastically.

"Moriarty's dead," Holmes averred in a firm voice.

"Not in your mind." He shook his head. "I'll never be dead there. You once called your brain a hard drive." Moriarty advanced on him in a menacing way. "Well, say hello to the virus. This is how we end, you and I. Always here, always together."

Holmes started his own advance towards his nemesis.

"You have a magnificent brain, Moriarty. I admire it," Holmes said, acknowledging the brilliant mind of his adversary.

Moriarty smiled a little.

"I concede it may be even be the equal of my own," Holmes continued.

The other man's smile widened. "I'm touched. I'm honoured."

"But when it comes to the matter of unarmed combat on the edge of a precipice..." Holmes gave Moriarty a grim look and Moriarty's smile dropped. "... you're going in the water..." He paused for a moment and smirked, before adding as an afterthought, "... short-arse."

Moriarty hissed at him and lashed out, jabbing his fingers into Holmes' throat. He choked and stumbled back. His deerstalker fell off as he clutched at his throat. _Dear Lord, that was a bit unexpected!_

Moriarty surged forward and grabbed Holmes' ears, shoving him against the rock wall. _His ears! How childish!_ Holmes roughly pushed him away and then, just as Moriarty straightened up, he punched him in the face.

Moriarty turned back to face him, breathing heavily. "Oh, you think you're so big and strong, Sherlock! Not with me!" he said, raising his voice considerably and he punched Holmes in the face in retaliation.

The impact of the punch spun him around and sent him sprawling to the ground. He instantly struggled to get up again. Holmes turned back and swung another punch.

 _O-oh!_

Moriarty blocked his punch, seized his arm and shoved him hard. He fell to the ground and got the wind knocked from his as he landed on his chest with an 'oof'.

His eyes widened in terror when he found himself looking straight over the edge into an abyss of darkness. He quickly struggled to turn over onto his back, breathing harshly. The moment he succeeded, Moriarty walked forward to stand over him.

He glared down at Holmes. "I am your WEAKNESS!" he yelled in outrage and he kicked him in the head, knocking him back again against the unyielding rock floor.

"I keep you DOWN!" Moriarty yelled again and this time he kicked him in the side, making Holmes grunt with pain.

Moriarty dropped to his knees and leaned forward, yelling into Holmes' face. "Every time you STUMBLE, every time you FAIL, when you're WEAK..."

Holmes grimaced as Moriarty yelled, his face hovering mere inches from his. Moriarty then punched him in his chest as he stood up. "I... AM..."

He bent over and punched his chest again. "... THERE!"

He then dropped to his knees, as Holmes tried to sit up, and seized his coat. Holmes feebly tried to push him back, but Moriarty's vicious kicks and punches had left him weak.

"No. Don't try to fight it. LIE BACK AND LOSE!"

He straightened up, hauling Holmes to his feet. They struggled again for a moment but Holmes soon ascertained that Moriarty had the upper hand. He got shoved sideways, perilously close to the edge of the drop, and soon Moriarty was pushing against his arm with one hand and pushing against the side of his head with his other hand, bending him over the side of the edge.

Holmes stared down and knew he was close to stumbling back, straight over the edge.

"Shall we go over together? It has to be together, doesn't it? At the end, it's always just you..."

Moriarty suddenly screamed his next words, his face twisted with a maniacal expression. "... AND ME!"

Suddenly, right behind them, Holmes heard a very familiar and welcome sound... His friend harrumphed to get Moriarty's attention. His adversary looked round and sure enough, just a few feet away Watson smiled slightly at them. Holmes couldn't help but smile elated at him as he saw how Watson lifted his revolver skyward, cocked it and then slowly pointed it forward.

"Professor, if you wouldn't mind stepping away from my friend. I do believe he finds your attention a shade annoying."

Holmes still had a slight smile on his face and he lifted his hands away from Moriarty, who, in turn, released him with a frustrated look on his face.

"That's not fair. There's two of you!" he snapped.

"There's always two of us. Don't you read The Strand?" Watson deadpanned and he tossed Holmes his deerstalker. He caught it effortlessly and sniffed nonchalantly as he put it on.

Watson gestured with his revolver. "On your knees, Professor," he ordered.

Moriarty looked both bewildered and exasperated, but he did as he was told and he fell to his knees at the side of the ledge, facing the drop.

"Hands behind your head."

Moriarty briefly glanced up at Holmes, but again he complied with the order.

"Thank you, John," Holmes said, giving him a pointed look.

"Since when do you call me John?"

Holmes smirked enigmatically. "You'd be surprised."

"No, I wouldn't," Watson shot back, with a chuckle before he looked down towards Moriarty. "Time you woke up, Sherlock."

Holmes raised his eyes at him in surprise.

"I'm a storyteller. I know when I'm in one."

"Of course. Of course you do, John," he said with a smile.

"So, what's he like? The other me, in the other place?" Watson asked curiously.

"Smarter than he looks."

"Pretty damned smart, then."

Holmes smiled. "Pretty damned smart." He agreed.

"You are going now?"

Both men looked round in surprise to find Lady Schricken standing behind them. Kyrie...

"She's your wife, isn't she?" Watson muttered. "In the other place."

"Yes," Holmes confessed. "The other me, I'm ashamed to admit, made the better decision. Even though things haven't always been easy for them, kind of a rough patch at the moment if I'm not mistaken... _This_ version of me, is just a glimpse for him, to show him what his life could have been like with _her_ not in it."

He held out his hand and he smiled warmly. Kyrie stepped forward without hesitating and took his hand. "I am more sorry than I can say that I didn't say 'yes'. In hindsight, 'yes' was the only correct answer to give. I was a fool. Can you forgive me?"

"Always," she whispered.

"I hope so," Holmes said with a sad smile. "My um, _counterpart_ , he really made a mess of things. I'm not sure if you... _she'll_ forgive him this time."

"Then take this with you." She looked up at him and gently placed her lips against his. He tenderly cupped her face as he kissed her.

"I hope you can find it in your heart, to forgive me one last time," he whispered against her lips as he pulled back just a little.

"If you put in enough effort then I'm sure I will."

He pressed his lips against hers in one last searing kiss, pulling her tightly into his embrace, until Watson cleared his throat.

Moriarty made a disgusted noise. "Why don't you two just get a room!"

Kyrie gasped in shock.

"Impertinent!" Watson said.

"Offensive," Holmes added.

"Actually," Watson said thoughtfully while he lowered his revolver. "... would you mind?"

"Not at all," Holmes said with an easy smile, holding his Kyrie close to him.

Watson walked forward to stand behind Moriarty. He then lifted his right foot and firmly kicked the maniac in the back, sending him forward over the edge. Moriarty screamed as he fell.

Kyrie smiled up at Holmes before she rested her head against his shoulder. Holmes held her tight to protect her as the three of them looked down into the abyss below them.

When Moriarty's last scream was also swallowed by the abyss, Watson straightened up and he looked at his friend.

"It was my turn." He explained.

"Quite so." Holmes agreed.

"How do you plan to wake up?" Kyrie asked him, looking up at him.

He looked around the area for a moment. "Ohhh... I should think like this..." he said, releasing his hold on her. He stepped onto the rim of the ledge with confidence.

"Are you sure?" Watson asked him.

Holmes turned his head to look at him. "Between us three, John, I always survive a fall."

"But how?"

Holmes faced forward with a determined look etched in his features. "Elementary, my dear Watson." He took off his deerstalker and he tossed it into the abyss. And then, after one last look at Kyrie and his friend, he bent his knees slightly and leaped forward, spreading his arms wide, allowing himself to plunge into the void.

As he fell forward, his arms still spread like an eagle, he started to smile. It was time to return to where and when he belonged. To be the person again who had dared to say 'yes' and had never regretted doing so.

As he flew ever downwards, his smile widened and turned into a big happy grin as he fell.

SSS

Sherlock jerked awake and he blinked his eyes. _Oh, things look rather... blurry._ He blinked again. He noticed a hand leaning on the headrest beside his head. He looked at it, still a bit confused. There was an arm attached to the hand and Sherlock followed it with his eyes until he found himself looking up at John's face. He smiled. "Miss me?"

Mary was there as well, bending forward slightly with a worried look in her face. Mycroft was still there too, just a few paces behind Mary, standing in the middle of the aisle. A look of disappointment was evident in his eyes. Wasn't it always though?

"Sherlock? You all right?" John asked him.

"Yes, of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"'Cause you probably just OD'd. You should be in hospital." Mary scolded him. There was... something in her eyes he couldn't quite understand...

"No time," Sherlock said as he got up. "I have to go to Baker Street now. Moriarty's back." He stumbled as he stepped into the aisle and slowly shook his head, trying to get his balance. _Well, that was embarrassing!_

"I almost hope he is, if it'll save you from _this_ ," Mycroft scoffed in disdain. When Sherlock looked, he noticed the piece of paper that contained his 'list'. He sighed in exasperation and snatched it from his brother's hand, then tore it in half and then in half again.

"No need for that now," he said and he dropped the pieces to the floor. "Got the real thing. I have work to do."

He started to walk forward, but he stopped moving when his brother called after him in a soft voice.

"Sherlock."

He raised his eyes to meet his brother's.

"Promise me?" Mycroft asked, his voice still soft.

Sherlock looked around the cabin for a moment, then looked back to Mycroft. Why was his brother so _emotional_ all of a sudden? He hated it and he didn't want to deal with it.

"What are you still doing here? Shouldn't you be off getting me a pardon or something, like a proper big brother?"

Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock moved forward and shoved Mycroft out of the way with his shoulder, and headed for the door. The prick was always in his way. He grabbed his coat and started to descend the steps of the plane. He stopped when he couldn't help but overhear his brother.

"Doctor Watson? Look after him. If Kyrie does decide to... you know... He'll need someone and he won't want that someone to be me... please?"

Sherlock furrowed his brows as he continued down the steps. His mind was still a bit fuzzy. The only thing he knew for certain was that Moriarty was dead. The details were a blurry mess though. There was something about Kyrie though... Something... important.

He put on his coat as he walked across the tarmac towards the car parked nearby. He stopped in his tracks. Different car, different driver. What had happened?

"Sherlock, hang on. Explain. Moriarty's alive, then?" John said as he caught up with him.

He stopped near the car and took his gloves from his pocket. "I never said he was alive. I said he was back."

"So he's dead," Mary stated.

"Of course he's dead. He blew his own brains out. No-one survives that. I just went to the trouble of an overdose to prove it." _Oh... that sounded a bit not good._ He looked down a bit as he put on his gloves.

"Moriarty is dead, no question. But more importantly..." He raised his head to look at John again. "I know exactly what he's going to do next."

He smiled at his friends but when John and Mary just stared back at him with grave looks on their faces, he stopped smiling.

"What's wrong?" he asked them.

"Why don't you go back to Baker Street?" Mary suggested. "Find out for yourself?"

She brushed past him and walked towards the car. When John gave him a look of pity before he followed his wife, Sherlock realised something was very wrong. His throat constricted and a coldness settled deep in his stomach.

SSS

Kyrie heard the door of the living room open. She knew it was him, though it didn't sound like him. Usually he came breezing in, slamming the doors.

She couldn't even look at him right now. If she did, she was certain her heart would break. Again.

He ventured further into the living room, his steps measured. Kyrie just stared ahead of herself without really seeing anything. She just waited.

He stopped near the small table that was near his armchair. She dared a brief glance. His fingers were lightly skimming over the small stack of papers that she put there. His pen was lying right on top of them.

Sherlock carefully turned them over and she could hear him breathe in sharply through his nose. "I thought I threw these into a fire?" he asked with a ragged whisper. His usually steady feet staggered towards his armchair and he flopped down.

Kyrie looked up at him and noticed he was deathly pale. His eyes were wide and he looked... afraid.

"These are new ones," she said flatly.

"S-so, do you want..." He swallowed audibly; he was struggling with his words. "... to...leave?"

"I don't know. I haven't made up my mind yet," Kyrie admitted. "Haven't even signed them yet. Thinking about it though." She couldn't help but notice he hadn't used the word divorce.

"Oh," he said softly.

"I'm at the end of my rope," she told him. "Have I ever treated you unjustly?"

Sherlock stared at her, then shook his head.

"Have I ever invaded too much of your time or space?"

"No," he croaked. "You've always been very considerate. More than I deserve."

"Then why could you not give me the dignity of a real goodbye?"

"I did..."

"You were high!"

He swallowed. And nodded his head.

"I told you that I loved you... and you were high. I know what kind of man you are and, I think, I've always done my best to be mindful of that."

"Yes," he whispered. "Loved?"

His voice sounded so terribly empty and hollow. He sounded like she felt. Kyrie closed her eyes. "You not telling me you love me back... That's okay. I know saying such things is not easy for you, if not impossible, and I never asked you to or expected you to."

"I know."

"But, you being _high_... when I completely and utterly bared myself for you..." She stopped talking for a moment, allowing the words to set in. "What did you think would happen, Sherlock? That you felt the need to dope yourself up on drugs, right before saying goodbye to me? Because I seem to recall you telling us that you use drugs to... _alleviate_ boredom."

"I didn't mean _that_. I meant..." He breathed out harshly. "I used drugs to, um, cope with the solitary confinement. I did not handle being _alone_ very well. There was a prison guard kind enough to slip me some Special K. But, you are right. I shouldn't have taken drugs right before my release."

Kyrie noticed his eyes kept drifting to the papers that were still lying on his table.

"I've taken a lot from you, Sherlock," she said softly. "I've forgiven you a lot of things, a lot of careless actions, a lot of thoughtless comments and behaviour. After all, you gave me fair warning."

She smiled tightly. "This one is not so easy. Even with your limited emotional range, you should know you don't go into a _final_ goodbye when you're completely hopped up on drugs. And on top of that, you flat out ignored me when you briefly snapped out of your little druggy happy place."

She paused for a moment. "You couldn't know that you would be brought back after just four minutes. You went, thinking that you would not come back. And you decided to dull your senses right before our last goodbye. Your mind may get a kick with the drugs, your sense not so much."

Sherlock stared at her. She noticed how the muscles in his throat worked convulsively. She realised he was waiting for her decision, for the hammer to drop. Would he accept it if her decision was to file for divorce? Did she even _want_ to find out?

Kyrie finally got up from her chair and looked at him. He just kept staring ahead as if he was not really with her at the moment. Either he'd fled into his Mind Palace for comfort, or he was actually affected for once, confronted with the nuclear fall out of his own actions.

"You can pick either the sofa or the bed, but we are not sleeping together tonight," she told him.

He raised his eyes to meet hers. His lips parted slightly and, if at all possible, his face turned even paler. She nearly ran to him to tell him she didn't want a divorce at all. He looked very subdued, shaken even, that moment. Not at all like the great Consulting Detective that everyone respected and... maybe even feared.

"Sofa," he whispered hoarsely. "You- You can take the bed."

She nodded at him and briefly disappeared into their bedroom to fetch him blankets, a cushion, something to sleep in... even his blue dressing gown. When she returned to the living room, she flung everything in a heap onto the sofa.

Kyrie then walked back across the room towards the kitchen door. She stopped near the doors that separated the kitchen from the living room. She turned back. "Good night," she whispered before she nearly fled the living room, and left him alone with his thoughts.

As she rested her back against the bedroom door, she wiped at the tears that had started falling. She hoped she'd gotten through to him. And she prayed he'd find a way to show her they were in this together after all, because leaving him would finish off her heart for good.


	81. One Last Time

**A/N This is the chapter that kept me up all night. Re-living his thoughts and his emotions over and over again because I was afraid I would forget. When I sat down to write, I did so with a violin cover of Suteki Da Ne in the background. I highly suggest you look that one up on youtube. You can find it by searching for 'Suteki da ne violin kopikostar'. Violin artist is Don Yau. You know what that song is, when you reach that part in the chapter. Can't miss really. I really hope you will give that song a go.**

 **IronLace ready for some more feels? And dayum! 5.30 AM? That is SOME dedication you've got there!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 This chapter, along with the previous one, is what had kept me up that night. I hope I was able to get this roller coaster of emotions across.**

 **Elbafo Nah, Kyrie didn't notice at all. Though she can startle awake if something jolts in her subconscious, she's usually out like a light once she's asleep. And yes, yes she does find Henry adorable. In the 'Oh look, what an adorably bunny!' kind of way.**

 **Guest 80 chapters in 2 days? That's... quite an achievement! That's around 600 pages of text! Anyway, thank you for your compliment! I'm really happy that you like the story so much and that you are in love with Kyrie and Sherlock as a pair together. I hope you will love this chapter!**

 **Don't forget to look up Suteki Da Ne guys! Press play when he's in his Mind Palace, hearing the music!**

SSS

Sherlock stared after her. He was... shocked into immobility. He felt hot and cold at the same time. He was of a mind to run after her, to bang on the door and demand she let him in. But what good would that do him? It would just confirm her belief she now had no other choice but to leave him.

He also felt a great desire to shoot something up. Perhaps add a new smiley to the wall. He could just imagine Kyrie's outrage if he'd pull a stunt like that.

She would sign those papers instantly and that was just it... wasn't it? He was desperately trying to figure out a way to prevent _that_ from happening. But how?

And how had he allowed this to even happen? How had things become so screwed up and... all wrong?

Ah, but that was easy, wasn't it? Throughout the years she'd always forgiven him for everything. And he had started to take her forgiving nature for granted. Never stopped to think there would come a moment even _she_ would say... enough.

He hardly noticed how he got up and went through the mechanic motions of getting himself dressed for the night. Sherlock discarded his clothes in a heap on the floor and dressed himself in the nightclothes Kyrie had handed him.

Instead of lying down on the sofa, he pulled on his blue dressing gown and he sat down on the sofa. He needed to think.

Kyrie was right, his emotional range was... very limited. If he would try and use words to persuade her, he would fuck it up, say all the wrong things and that would end up in her signing those papers. And... he had made her a promise long ago. That if she wanted out, he would not stand in her way. With all the things he'd done wrong, he at least wanted to do that one thing right... to keep his promises to her.

He closed his eyes and delved into his Mind Palace. When he opened his eyes, he was still in the flat, just... inside his Mind Palace.

He looked around their living room and was amazed how much it _breathed_ her. It didn't even look that much different from all those years ago... it still had that nutty professor slash bachelor pad feel. Still, there were so many traces of her. So many little things that really made this, not just home, but _their_ home.

He rubbed his hand over his face and with a little wave of his hand he started deleting everything in the room that belonged to his wife. He was curious to find out how such a room would _feel_ like.

Sherlock started with the ridiculous books she liked to read. Then followed with her little tea knick-knacks on the kitchen counter... her favourite tea mug. He even deleted her scent, all of her scents actually since she liked to wear different perfumes. With each trivial little item he deleted, the room became so much darker and colder.

It became harder to breathe but still, Sherlock continued to delete items. His eyes fell on her scrap book, they widened. _No, no that_... He did it anyway and he started to tremble. His body very physically started to protest against this process and he hadn't even deleted everything yet. He found he just couldn't bring himself to completely delete every trace of her. It... hurt.

He panted and with a wave of his hand everything returned. He calmed down, seeing all of her little things restored to where they belonged. He pressed a hand to his mouth in thought. Well... at least he now knew what the room without her would feel like. Like Hell had decided to take up residence inside 221B Baker Street and then froze over.

He closed his eyes again and delved deep into his Mind Palace. He needed to know what to do... about Kyrie. To let her know that she did matter to him and how impossible it would be for him to revert back to who he used to be before she'd breezed in, turned his life upside down and kicked against everything he'd ever believed about himself.

There had to be _something_ buried in that vast old place. Otherwise... what _use_ was it to him, if he couldn't even use it to prevent her from leaving him?

Musical notes drifted around in his Mind Palace. He recognised the notes as he had composed them himself, years ago... the musical piece he'd written when he believed that Irene Adler had died. Music he'd written, mourning a different woman, on the sheets his wife had given him for a Christmas present. He shook his head in dismay. How on earth could he have even contemplated such a thing? And it was not the first, or last time, wasn't it? That he'd disappointed Kyrie.

The notes shifted into a different melody... also very familiar. He'd composed this himself as well. It was the waltz he'd written for John and Mary's wedding. He'd been in a completely different mindset then. With Kyrie agreeing to try to be in a real relationship with him, that had brought with it feelings of content and belonging he'd never known before. It had resulted in a musical piece that was so different from all his other works. In it he'd shown a side of himself he never even knew existed; with a light-heartedness and tenderness he'd only been able to pour into music because he'd only just then gotten familiar with these new feelings.

The notes shifted again and his head snapped up. He briefly stopped breathing and, for a moment, he thought his heart stopped beating as well. He licked his lips. What he heard was hauntingly beautiful and deeply emotional and... in the end, the only way he knew how to bare his soul to her, and show her everything he was too emotionally stunted to say.

If he did this, it had to be absolute perfection. No mistakes were allowed. Maybe, if he composed something for her, especially for her, and if he could just make it absolutely bloody perfect... maybe then he could sway her mind to keep her from going away. He knew he had to try at least.

And so he set to work. He settled himself into the sofa and listened carefully to the music his heart composed for his wife. It wasn't completely finished, so he still had to give it a perfect ending.

 _Okay, stop sitting now, write it down!_ Sherlock bolted from the sofa and frantically searched for his leather case, the one Kyrie had gifted him, which held his blank musical sheets.

When he found it, he tried to grab a few sheets but accidentally pulled it all out in too much of a hurry, causing musical sheets to scatter through the room like leaves. He didn't care.

He quickly dug out the special pencil from the case, the one he liked to use when composing. He then bent to pick up a sheet and brought it over to his musical stand and he started writing down the notes in a frantic fever.

Sherlock composed the entire night, not even stopping for a brief moment. He blinked when the first rays of sunlight fell through the window and started to hurt his eyes.

Suddenly his hand stopped writing, he looked on in horror when he noticed his hand was trembling. It was already morning... and he wasn't finished yet. It wasn't... perfect. It didn't even have an ending!

He groaned, appalled with himself. He then picked up his violin. He didn't care if he would wake up everyone in the building or even the neighbours next door. He had to physically play the music and feel the notes to be able to fill in the missing pieces.

With trembling hands he picked up his violin and bow. He placed his violin against his left shoulder, his hand taking the position so his fingers caressed the strings. With his right hand he drew his bow across the strings to play the melody he had created during the night. He had turned his feelings, the things he couldn't say, into music.

It started as a plea. _Please, don't leave me. Being without you, is not something I can do._

It then shifted to an apology. _I know I've been an utter arse. I've treated you disrespectful and I took you for granted. I've looked at love from both sides now and I don't want to go back to where it's not there._

From there it became a promise. _If you stand by my side, I swear I'll do better. Because you make me a better man. I'll endeavour to deserve you, even though I know I never will. You've always seen the best in me. Don't stop. Don't leave. Stay. I don't know how to say it, but you mean the world to me._

There was a last desperate plea. _I'm falling apart without you and we're not even apart yet. Can you imagine what would happen if you did leave? You hold my heart. You always have. Please, be gentle with it and I promise to better look after yours._

He then repeated his apology and also his promise... but he didn't know how to end.

"I have to finish this," he whispered. He decided he _had_ to end the song with hope. Otherwise he would not be able to play this for her at all...

SSS

Kyrie woke up to soft violin music that drifted towards her. She opened her eyes but otherwise she remained utterly still. This was not something she'd ever heard him play before.

He tended to wear his heart on his sleeve through his violin, but usually when he played it was dark, brooding, angry... or he just jammed his bow across the strings to create a deafening screeching sound when he was annoyed or bored.

Apart from the songs he'd composed for Irene, and Mary and John, he never played something so... emotional. And this was... beyond words. It was despair, sadness, happiness, yearning and hope all mixed into one beautiful song.

She couldn't help herself. The music lured her from bed and from their bedroom, like a bee to a flower.

Kyrie carefully opened the kitchen door and she softly padded to the doors to the living room. She found Sherlock standing near the left most window... his back towards her, his blue dressing gown hanging from his shoulders; he was playing as if his life depended upon it.

He hit a few notes that instantly brought tears to her eyes. She'd never heard something so _celestial_ and she wondered why he'd never played this before.

Sherlock suddenly stopped playing and bent over his music stand to scribble something on a sheet of paper. It was then that she noticed that blank musical sheets were strewn all around the living room. She furrowed her brows in confusion.

"I- I need more time," he suddenly said. Kyrie cast a puzzled look at him. He sounded... way, way off. Oh, God! She closed her eyes. Was he high on drugs again? Because if he was, she would move out. Today!

"It's not finished yet. It's- It's not... perfect!" He turned around to face her and Kyrie gasped for air when she saw the state he was in. He looked like he was ready for the grave; his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, he was pale as death and he was trembling violently.

"I _need_ more time," he said through clenched teeth. "I _have_ to finish this."

"Sherlock," she started carefully. "You're scaring me. Have you taken more drugs? Do I need to call Mycroft?"

"No! No drugs, _no_ drugs. I've just been busy. I _need_ to finish this. It _has_ to be perfect," Sherlock said, his voice insistent while he gesticulated with his hands.

Kyrie slowly walked towards him. There was a musical sheet that he'd placed on the dinner table and then a lot more that were crumpled on the floor.

The musical sheet on the table was filled with neatly marked notations. If the numerous crumpled sheets on the floor were anything to go by, it had taken him just as many tries to get a result he deemed acceptable.

Her stomach contracted into a tight ball. "Did you... compose this?" she asked him in a suffocated whisper.

He whipped around again. Kyrie took a look at the music sheet on his standard and it resembled in nothing the neat sheet on the table. His hand trembled and he was barely able to make a recognisable notation.

Sherlock grimaced and jabbed his pencil at the paper. "Yes, but it's _not_ finished."

Kyrie sighed. Great. She'd hoped that she and Sherlock could work this out in an adult manner. To sit and discuss if there was still a future for them, or if it was better to cut their losses and just call it quits.

She was on the verge of probably the biggest decision of her life and she really, just once, could have used the support of his more responsible side that she knew had to be lurking somewhere deep inside of him.

Apparently she didn't mean enough for him to warrant a civilized discussion. He'd rather push those thoughts away and... compose instead.

Her chest grew tight and it became harder to breath. She tried to maintain a collected composure, but it was really hard. Should she just sign the papers and hand them to him? Ask him to sign first? Could she even get through to him at the moment? He looked awfully distracted at the moment.

Maybe if she complimented his work he would calm down a bit so then they could talk. It was worth a try. She couldn't exactly have a conversation with him when he was so worked up like this. "It's beautiful," she said in a managed tone.

Sherlock stilled his motions and stopped trying to edit or mark new notations. "You think so?" he asked in voice that was thick with tension.

"I don't think I've... ever... heard you play something even remotely as moving or as beautiful as this. It's...magnificent," she admitted.

He turned around and looked at her with his bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes that burned with a feverish intensity. "So... you like it then?" he asked her.

Kyrie furrowed her brows at his puzzling behaviour. "Yes, like I said, it's absolutely beautiful."

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "That's not good enough," he said, his voice hoarse. "It has to be... perfect."

"Why?" she asked, wondering why he acted as if this particular piece of music was to be his magnum opus. She detected a hard, quick pulse in his throat. He looked over her head, staring at... something...

Kyrie turned her face to follow his gaze and saw how he was staring at the divorce papers, his face etched with pain, as if it was something lethal.

He muttered something unintelligent. The only word she could understand was... 'stay'.

She closed her eyes when she understood. He did not want a divorce. Considering the state he was in, he had spent the entire night to compose this musical piece, because he lacked the ability to use words, in an attempt to make her stay. And now he was nervous it wasn't good enough.

"It's perfect," she whispered.

"No," he disagreed. "It doesn't have an ending yet. I- I need more time."

Her heart made the decision for her when she walked up to him and splayed her fingers on his chest. She sighed in resignation, briefly wondering how many more times he would crush her heart. "Sherlock, it's perfect," she assured him. "You can finish it later. Will... Will you play this for me when it's complete?"

He closed his eyes, unable to make eye-contact and bowed his head. "Every day, if you'll let me," he said on a whisper. She simply slipped the hand on his chest to his back and pressed herself close to him, her other hand finding a way to his back as well.

"Every day won't be necessary, but it's very beautiful... I'd love to hear it again."

She could feel him nod his head on top of hers. He limply wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her even closer, one of his hands curling around her neck. When she felt the cool touch of his skin she looked up at him alarmed. "You're freezing!" she exclaimed.

"Not any more," he said, sounding very tired. "Will you stay?"

"Will you at least try and think things through before you act?"

"I can safely promise I _will_ try, I just can't guarantee I'll always succeed," he said, rubbing his jaw against the top of her head.

"And try and... talk a bit more? I know you keep things close to your heart, but I can't read your mind, Sherlock."

"What mind?" he said hoarsely. "I lost it years ago."

"Your brilliant mind that you use every day to help people and solve cases. The one thing you value of yourself above all else."

"Oh. That one."

"Will you?"

"What?"

"Try and talk a bit more?"

"Yes."

"And never ignore me like that again."

"I won't."

Kyrie smiled at his words. He sounded meek as a little lamb and thoroughly ashamed. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

"This is the last time, Sherlock, I really can't do this again."

"I know."

She noticed he was starting to doze off. "Um, I really think you should get some sleep now," she suggested.

"I think you're right," he agreed softly, slurring the words a bit. He shook his head and wrapped his arms around her waist and picked her up. Then he started walking in the direction of their bedroom.

"Sherlock?" she asked. "What are you doing?"

"Taking you up on your suggestion," he said. "And get some sleep."

He walked them both through the bedroom door and unceremoniously dropped her onto the bed. He then kicked the door shut with his foot and flung his dressing gown in the direction of the wardrobe. It fell down to the floor in a heap.

He gave her a half-smile when he dropped himself onto the bed as well, too tired to crawl under the covers. By the time Kyrie covered them both, he was already fast asleep. She snuggled up to him and closed her eyes as well. She too had been awake for most of the night.

One last time, she thought. She wanted to believe in Sherlock one last time. She knew he could learn because he'd shown her so many times. For her, he'd opened his heart and let her reside there...

A man who always used to say that all emotions were abhorrent to him and he did not believe in nor desired to be involved in any form of romantic entanglement. And here he was, out like a light because he'd been up all night, composing a song for her. Because he wanted her to stay.

She struggled up a bit and gave him a sweet kiss on his lips and watched them twitch with the ghost of a smile. "One last time, you clever boy. You can do it. _We_ can do it. Now you just have to show me."

They didn't talk for a large portion of the day as they held each other close in peaceful slumber.


	82. Reconnecting

**A/N Hi all! I hope you guys gave that song a try, as I suggested. Thank you for your amazing reviews, PM's and just overall support. How many of you celebrated Easter today? I did, with the girls, so wasn't able to write a lot, but did get something done. I wrote the 'Toby' scene today! In case you are worried why I'm only that far in the episode, instead of writing the next one already as is usually the case... well... there's a lot of extra unscripted content.**

 **Too many reviews to respond to individually. Just know, I love and appreciate each and every one of them. Lots of endorphins releasing when reading reviews. Yeah, combine that with chocolate! ;-)**

SSS

Kyrie wasn't surprised at all to find herself waking up to find Sherlock's limbs curled all around her in the most unlikely angles. When she heard his breath hitch, she knew he'd just woken up as well.

Her face was squished against his shoulder, the top of her head tucked underneath his chin. He suddenly turned on his side so he was facing her. He looked at her for a while, not saying a word. His eyes were guarded and she could see he was fighting to keep his face impassive as he tentatively slid his hands on her back and buried his face in her neck to place a hesitant kiss there, his lips barely even touching her skin.

"Sherlock," she whispered. Apparently he considered her soft whisper to be a good sign as he pulled her closer to him, her body, her breasts, full against his chest. She felt more than heard him groan softly as her softness fit just exactly right in the contours of his body.

Slowly, as though it were the most important thing he'd ever done, Sherlock buried his hands in her hair and brought his face to hers.

He gazed into her eyes briefly, as if he was trying to find out if he was allowed to continue.

She'd let him know she was not going anywhere, by telling him he'd have time to finish his song later, but she had not explicitly told him she'd stay. And even though she'd already abandoned all thoughts about starting a divorce, he didn't know that.

When she didn't push him away, he placed his lips against hers. His kiss was soft and sweet with no expectations. He'd kissed her many times before, but not like this. Before, he'd been in control, always, even when his passion rose. But this kiss was tenderness and hope. It was all gentleness and sweetness and sensitivity. It was as though he'd not been entirely sure he'd get to kiss her again and now that he was being allowed to, he wanted to savour every second of it.

There was something else in his kiss as well: vulnerability. He was letting her see how much she meant to him, allowing her to see his longing and yearning. In this kiss he was not protecting himself, but allowing his innermost feelings to shine through. Tears sprang to her eyes when she realised he was baring himself to her, like she had done with her words during their goodbye. He was trusting her.

Kyrie knew that at this moment he would not take what he hadn't been offered, so if she wanted the kiss to continue past a kiss, it would be up to her to make the first move. He was giving her a choice.

The kiss continued, then became just a bit more intense, and the longing she felt in him increased. When he pulled away from her she could feel him trembling from the iron will he was exerting to keep himself under control. Always that control!

She could feel the heat radiating off his body and the strain in his muscles while he probably just wanted to leap on her, tear her nightshirt off and make wild love to her. Instead, he was limiting himself to one tender, endless kiss.

"Sherlock," she whispered again.

"Yes?" His normally deep voice was husky with suppressed emotion.

"I…" Kyrie licked her lips and found she couldn't say anything, lest she'd break down and cry. She wanted to tell him that it was all right, that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Maybe she was making a mistake and she was just setting herself up for more heartbreak. But when had her heart ever made sane and self-preserving decisions when it came to him? Maybe she was just a glutton for punishment.

Because she didn't trust her own voice, she decided not to use words to give him permission, allowing her body to do the talking for her. Turning fully toward him, she opened her mouth under his, pressed her legs against his, allowed her body to soften and melt against his.

A smile slowly broke the impassive expression on his face and he gazed at her with the most delighted pair of eyes she had ever seen.

Now that she had wordlessly given him full permission, Kyrie groaned when she realised the situation was about to change... and it did... it changed into about 170 pounds of very enthusiastic, hungry male. There was no more shyness. No more hesitation. Only exuberance, energy and delight.

Kyrie blinked. One moment she was still wearing her nightshirt and the next she was wearing nothing. Good Lord! He sure could get rid of clothing quickly!

Sherlock's hands were all over her at once, searching, exploring; as if he felt a need to reacquaint himself with her body. His mouth followed his hands, and when Kyrie moaned in pleasure he smiled wickedly.

"Sherlock," she tried to say, but his hands were distracting her and that sensual mouth of his was sending such shivers of delight through her that she could hardly think.

"Your…" She broke off. What was she trying to say again? She could scarcely remember. Coherent thought was leaving her quickly and she no longer had the ability to perform the Herculean task of finding words when he was touching her like that. His hands were on her thighs, his palms running over the curves of her legs.

Her body was turning to mush, pliant, soft... easy and willing. "Your…" she tried again.

"My what?" he managed to whisper, his voice filled with the intoxication of pleasure he was experiencing. She tugged at his shirt. She was fully nude and submitted to his eyes and hands, but he was still clothed in his pyjamas.

Understanding dawned in his eyes and he gave her a mischievous grin. After the ease with which he had removed her nightshirt and panties, Kyrie wasn't surprised when his pyjamas and briefs came off in the flash of an eye.

She held in her breath at the sight of him. There was precious little time to admire the view because his hot, wet mouth latched onto her skin again, singeing her with the heat of his kisses.

Kyrie moaned in ecstasy. This was Sherlock, the man she'd wanted, desired, craved and loved for the better part of five years. His graceful hands moved down the side of her, betraying a strength in them he didn't often show.

His thumb was toying with her navel as his lips and tongue created a hot path between her breasts, slowly moving lower. Her fingers buried into his hair. "Sherlock?" she said as his lips began moving down her belly. "Sherlock, um..."

His hands caressed her thighs, his thumb kneading the soft white flesh there; then he moved downward and even further downward.

Kyrie arched her body against the mattress. Her eyes flared open at the entirely new sensations.  
No man had ever done this to her before. Passion built in her as his tongue... Oh, God, his tongue!

"Holy...!," she moaned, and began to pull his hair as her body writhed under him, her skin growing hotter and hotter as if her temperature were rising by degrees. He gently explored the inside of her thighs, caressing the back of her knees, until she didn't think she could stand it any more.

He slowly moved back up again, trailing kisses over the soft skin of her stomach, burning a path between her breasts until he was right above her.

Taking her left leg in his hand, he bent it up as he moved on top of her and entered her, agonisingly slow and only half way. Kyrie gasped and opened her eyes to look at him. He lay still on top of her, a tentative and relieved smile playing on his lips. He seemed to be at ease, but there were drops of sweat on his forehead. Again, she noticed his muscles trembling under his restraint.

Blinking a few times, she moved her hips slightly upward, toward his, and she saw Sherlock's eyes close, his lips part and his head lean back as he entered her fully. She thought her heart was going to leap from her breast as he began to move inside her, so gently at first and the sensation of this slow lovemaking was absolutely heavenly.

Slowly, deeply, rhythmically, he moved, touching her in a way that seemed to consume her until she felt as if she might explode. He looked down at her with darkened eyes, his face twisted in concentration. He was punishing himself.

He swallowed hard and caught her legs, moved them around his waist then carefully lifted her hips upward so that half of her body weight was supported by his hips. He began to move more quickly and Kyrie put her hands up to touch his chest, his arms, then his shoulders, digging her fingers into the muscles. Her head began to turn back and forth and there were little sounds coming from her.

He seemed determined to draw more from her. His hands cupped her buttocks and he lifted her to him even higher so she could take even more of him in, Kyrie cried out, completely enraptured in the moment, and put up her hands against the headboard of the bed to brace herself.

His movements quickened and he harshly snapped his hips against hers, ripping moans and grunts of delirious passion from his own throat, while keeping himself in check. He was thoroughly making sure that her desires were met first and foremost.

Only when her body shuddered against him and convulsed around him in a body melting climax, did he allow himself to arch into her for a few final blinding thrusts. Her name was on his lips when he came, hard.

It was a while before she came to herself to remember where she was, or even who she was.

He pulled her close to him with her back against his chest and just held her for a long time, letting his fingers gently trace over the contours of her body, as if he was committing every inch of her body to memory.

Kyrie turned in his arms so she could languidly let her fingers explore his chest, his hips and stomach... his thighs. She took notice as his skin flinched; his muscles jumped and twitched at her touch until his arms were covered in goosebumps.

She gently placed her lips against his jugular and flicked her tongue across his skin, tasting the saltiness of his sweat on him.

"Kyrie," he whispered. She looked up at him hearing the thickness in his voice and noticed his eyes were glistening. "I... I'd notice if you were gone, remember?" His voice cracked a bit.

She inhaled deeply to not burst out crying. "I do," she said, her voice thick with tears. "I'd notice if you were gone too. Remember?"

Sherlock nodded his head furiously. "Yes," he said hoarsely. "God, yes!" He then crashed her to his chest, buried his face in her neck and held her close to him for a long time.

She could feel the last bit of his tension seep away from his limbs. He then took her hand and lifted her to stand close to him. Gently, sweetly, deeply, he kissed her, then pulled her into the bathroom.

"I know you prefer the tub," he said, his voice husky, "But, I'm thinking shower right now."

Kyrie arched a brow at him. Shower? The faulty showerhead hidden behind a crummy shower curtain on a crooked shower track... he called _that_ a 'shower'?

Still, he got the shower water hot, then pulled her along with him. Pinning her to the wall, he kissed her, his long, wiry body pressing against hers.

"Just want to see what this is like," he murmured. "Seems practical enough, easy clean up afterwards."

Kyrie was too absorbed in the way he was moving down to her breasts to be able to answer him. With the hot water beating on them, Sherlock began kissing her body, his mouth in her neck, her breasts and on her stomach. Kyrie had her head back, her hands on his shoulders to steady herself.

He came up to face her. When Kyrie opened her eyes, she saw he was smiling at her. He knew exactly what he was doing to her and he was revelling in it.

"Sherlock?" she said sweetly.

"Hmm?"

"Let me return the favour."

"What do you –"

She cut him off by kissing his neck, then across his shoulder and down his chest, her hands kneading his back muscles, her fingers brushing and soothing against the scars she touched.

The hot water beat down on her head, and she went lower, her hands on his buttocks. When her mouth closed over him, it was his turn to gasp. His hands buried themselves in her wet hair as she heard his soft moans of pleasure.

After a while he nearly pulled her up by her hair as he slammed her against the slick wall.

"Kyrie, my dear," he managed to get out in jagged breaths, "Not that I don't enjoy your... um... ministrations, I just like this so much better," he said and he instantly pulled her legs about his waist, and rammed into her with that wild abandon she was always seeking. She smiled in triumph when even Sherlock had no other choice but to give in and let go of his restraint.

Kyrie held on to his passion, fastening herself to him as his mouth took hers, his tongue thrusting just as his body did. When the final moment came, Kyrie would have screamed except that Sherlock covered her mouth with his. She clung to him, trembling, her body limp.

His fingers dug into her flesh for a few last desperate thrusts before all of his muscles tensed. He gasped harshly, his eyes rolled back and a tremor racked through his body as he climaxed nearly violently, before he collapsed against her.

She could feel his heart thudding wildly in his chest. His head was buried in her neck and they both needed time to drift down to earth and recompose themselves. She was sure that if he hadn't been holding her, she would have gone down the drain.

Sherlock lazily held her pinned against the wall and Kyrie realised he was not really with her any more; he was somewhere else entirely. At some point he shuddered and he breathed in sharply, signalling he was back.

He slowly pulled back from her and he planted a sweet kiss in her neck. "Now I will wash you," he stated seriously as he set her on her own feet, then caught her when she nearly fell.

Kyrie could feel her cheeks flush in embarrassment but Sherlock made no comment. His mind came back into play and he seemed to just put his passion away under the strictest of controls as he turned her to face the showerhead and began to shampoo her hair.

She loved the sensation of his slender graceful hands massaging shampoo into her hair and scalp, his long wiry body close to her. She felt... home.

When he was done with her hair, he lathered his hands and began soaping her body. Kyrie leaned back against the wall as Sherlock's hands slid over her, up and down, around, in and out. Wanting to return the attention, she took the soap – avocado, kiwi and watermelon – and began to caress him with her soapy hands.

He might not have the most beautiful body ever seen on a man, but he was the only man she'd ever want and love – and he was hers.

She turned off the water and soaped his entire body. She grinned when she noticed he'd started to smell like her soap.

Kyrie loved looking at him, touching him. There was a birthmark on his left hip, shaped like a horse shoe. She kissed it. There was a scar on his right thigh. "Fell from a tree when I was eight," he murmured, when her fingers brushed over it, his eyes were closed.

She placed a kiss on the small round scar on his lower chest, where Mary had shot him. "You already know that one."

Next she found a small scar on his left forearm. "Happened during a case, got surprised by the person I was pursuing."

And finally she noticed an odd oval scar on his shoulder. Sherlock smiled, his eyes closed. "A little kerfuffle with Mycroft. I won," he said. She came back to his head.

"If you are checking for marks left by other women," Sherlock said dryly, opening his eyes to look at her. "You can stop looking. Only one woman has marked me. You. Somewhere where the eye can't see."

Kyrie was glad they were in the shower as she was embarrassing herself by getting emotional over that casual remark.

He then turned her around, turned the water back on and rinsed them both. When they were clean, he pulled her out of the shower, picked up a comb and gently started combing her hair.

She smiled as Sherlock was humbling himself, pampering her. When her hair was combed, he towelled it dry, then wrapped her in a large towel before wrapping a towel around his waist.

"Come," he said, leading her back to the bedroom where he started to dry every inch of her body until her skin was glowing. Finally, he draped one of his dressing gowns around her and placed a tender kiss on her forehead and just held her close to him for a brief moment.

When he finished drying and dressing himself as well, he turned to look at her. "I'm going to make you some tea," he stated solemnly before he left her alone in the bedroom. She stared at his retreating back in shock.

SSS

The next day Kyrie was making them breakfast. She smiled when she noticed the remains of the divorce papers in the trash bin, ripped up in teeny-tiny pieces.

After an entire day of indulging in sexual pleasure and leisurely hanging about, Sherlock had found his composure again. Though his attitude was quite aloof again, there was also something about him that betrayed his immense relief that there would be no divorce.

He was currently sitting at the dinner table, reading through several newspapers, keeping himself informed about the bits that were of interest to him, mayhem and murder.

"Mycroft is expecting us in the cabinet office in about two hours," Sherlock said idly as Kyrie put buttered toast on a plate in front of him and a boiled egg.

He eyed the food and narrowed his eyes at her. "I didn't tell you what I wanted for breakfast. Why did you make me this?"

"You had that look on your face."

"I have a look on my face when I want toast and a boiled egg?" he asked incredulously.

Kyrie went to sit across from him and put down a plate with two slices of toast and scrambled eggs in front of herself. She quirked a brow at him. "Yes," she said and she lifted her fork to stab it into the eggs. "Was I wrong?" she questioned.

Sherlock folded down the paper and gave her a look. "No," he admitted.

Kyrie flashed him a grin.

He looked at his toast for a few long moments, without touching it. When he raised his eyes at her, something flashed inside of them briefly before it vanished. "Something... peculiar... happened yesterday," he said softly.

She furrowed her eyebrows but didn't respond.

"In the shower..." he explained, "... right after I climaxed rather... intensely. It was as if I got shoved straight into my Mind Palace and..." Sherlock paused for a moment and his mind seemed to be adrift.

He blinked his eyes and continued. "I saw things... things I thought I'd long deleted. But that's not all, the most peculiar thing was... I noticed a door, Kyrie. A blue wooden door that I couldn't open; a door I haven't been able to find again. And there was a name on that door." His voice became softer and softer as he talked.

"What name?" Kyrie asked hesitantly.

Sherlock placed the palm of his hands in front of him and rubbed his chin with the tips of his index fingers.

"Eurus," he finally said.

"Eurus?" Kyrie repeated to him.

He merely nodded his head.

"What does that mean?"

"Eurus... In Greek mythology he was the god of the eastern wind. Brother of Zephyros, Boreas and Notos. The other 'wind directions' so to speak."

"Why would you have a closed door in your Mind Palace with _that_ name on it?" Kyrie asked.

"I don't know," he said softly, "But I intend to find out.


	83. Redemption in the Face of Divorce

**A/N Aww, only 2 reviews for the last chapter? Makes me a bit sad. Hopefully this chapter will evoke more of a response, even though it's a bit shorter.**

 **Elbafo So nice to view these chapters through your eyes. I can't wait till you reach the Fall and what comes after that!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 So glad you liked this chapter! I really wanted to write a love scene between them, but not the usual... it had to show that Sherlock really is still feeling the after effects of his fear she would leave him. And...yes... things will be mixed up a bit in the next episode! Lot's of Mary in it, so far at least...**

 **DreamonAlina It's just a brief little mention of Eurus for now. We are now in Six Thatcher's territory so Eurus' door is a bit forgotten. Right until it comes into play again!**

SSS

Two hours later, Sherlock and Kyrie were brought to one of the hearing rooms in the building at 70 Whitehall, London.

Sherlock was seated in a large armchair, facing a massive square table that had three people seated behind it. Kyrie didn't know any of them, but she knew that the woman in the middle was Lady Smallwood, who had previously hired Sherlock to retrieve letters that had used for blackmail. She also knew that the man to her left was Sir Edwin; she only knew him by name though. She did not know the identity of the elderly lady sitting to the right of Lady Smallwood.

Mycroft was there as well and he was currently directing all of their attentions toward a large video screen showing four perspectives of all that had transpired on the patio at Appledore shortly before Sherlock shot Gerulf Schricken.

"What you're about to see is classified beyond top secret," Mycroft told all the people currently present. "Is that quite clear?" He gave the elderly lady a pointed look. "Don't minute any of this," he ordered her.

The woman, who was just about to put on her glasses, lowered them again and folded her hands demurely in her lap.

Kyrie was sitting in one of the brown leather chairs near one of the walls. She bit her lower lip in an attempt to hide her smile, because Sherlock was not paying attention at all. He was typing away on his phone.

Mycroft continued. "Once beyond these walls, you must never speak of it. A D-notice has been slapped on the entire incident. Only those within this room – code names Antarctica, Langdale, Porlock and Love – will ever know the whole truth."

Whenever Mycroft took a brief pause, a rapid quiet clicking could be heard.

"As far as everyone else is concerned, going to the Prime Minister and way beyond, Gerulf Schricken... Are you _tweeting_?!" he suddenly asked Sherlock, sending him a glare. Sherlock's head shot up, his face expressing fake innocence while he quickly turned his phone away. The look of innocence turned to one of slight guilt when briefly the sound of a sent tweet was heard.

"No," he still tried.

"Well, that's what it looks like," Mycroft said accusingly.

"Of course I'm not tweeting. Why would I be tweeting?" Sherlock deflected.

But Mycroft wasn't having any of it. "Give me that," he said with an exasperated sigh and he walked over to his younger brother and reached for the phone.

"What? No. Get off. What are you doing?"

A struggle ensued with Sherlock trying to hold on to the phone with both hands while Mycroft attempted to take it from him.

"Get off," Sherlock told Mycroft again, "What...?"

"Give it here." Mycroft ordered him sternly and finally managed to pull the phone from Sherlock's hands and he looked at the screen.

Kyrie looked down and shielded her face with her hand. They could be so ridiculous at times!

" _Back on terra firma,"_ Mycroft read one of the tweets.

"Don't read them out." Sherlock said, sounding aggravated.

" _Free as a bird."_

"God, you're such a spoilsport," Sherlock said miffed.

"Will you take this matter seriously, Sherlock?" Mycroft told him, a bit of a bite to his voice.

"I _am_ taking it seriously. What makes you think I'm not taking it seriously?" Sherlock claimed.

Mycroft gave him a look before looking back at the phone. "Hashtag OhWhatABeautifulMorning," he read aloud. He looked back at Sherlock. "I take it you had make up sex this morning then?"

"No, that was yesterday," Sherlock countered. "This morning we just had sex, it was _great_ sex though."

Kyrie slowly raised her head in horror. Mycroft's eyes were bulging and she could feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment. Sherlock really did not have any sense of propriety... at all!

Sherlock glared at his brother indignantly. "Look, not so long ago I was on a mission that meant certain death – _my_ death – and I had a bit of a lapse in judgement that nearly caused my wife – perhaps you know her, that woman right there, Kyrie – to leave me. Thanks to a stroke of genius I composed her a brilliant song and managed to prevent that from happening..."

Kyrie started to look around anxiously in search for a gun. She began to feel an urgent need to shoot a certain person.

"Truth be told? Between you and I?" Sherlock said, addressing the three people behind the table. "I think she has a _tremendous_ weak spot for me. My brother and I like to call that 'human error'. Just imagine the _many_ ways I could exploit that."

He paused for a moment. "Better stop dwelling on that subject since, you know, my wife is currently present... Moving on... I'm now back, in a nice warm office with my wife, my big brother and... Are those ginger nuts?"

He got an excited look on his face when he noticed the plate with the biscuits on the table and he sprang to his feet to walk over there.

"Oh, God," Mycroft and Kyrie sighed simultaneously.

" _Love_ ginger nuts." Sherlock exclaimed and he a grabbed a handful of the biscuits from the plate.

"Gee, I didn't know that. At all," Kyrie deadpanned.

"Our doctor said you were clean," Lady Smallwood said with some disdain.

"I am, _utterly_." He turned and looked at Mycroft as he walked back towards his armchair.

"No need for stimulants now, remember? I have work to do." He started to munch on one of the biscuits.

"You're high as a kite!" Sir Edwin accused him.

Sherlock turned to face him. "Natural high, I assure you. _Totally_ natural. Redemption in the face of divorce and make up sex – lots of it – will do that to you. I highly recommend it. That and I'm just... 'Glad to be aliiiiiiive'!" he sang dramatically with a grand flourish of his hands. He chuckled and lowered his hands, still chomping on his mouthful of biscuit.

"May I advise you to leave the singing to your wife in the future?" Mycroft suggested dryly. "Her voice is infinitely better than yours. Even though she loves to threaten me with singing a certain song I abhor, I'd still prefer _that_ to... whatever it is that you just did."

Sherlock looked at him and seemed to give it some thought. "Quite right." He then conceded. "So, what shall we do next?" He pointed at the elderly woman. "What's your name?"

The woman gave him a nervous look. "Vi-Vivian," she said.

"What would _you_ do, Vivian?"

"Pardon?"

"Well, it's a lovely day. Go for a stroll?"

Kyrie ventured a brief look at Lady Smallwood and noticed her frown and shaking her head in disbelief. Sir Edwin merely put his hand over his face.

"Make a paper aeroplane? Have an ice lolly, other ice cream?" Sherlock suggested as he took another bite of his biscuit."

"Ice lolly, I suppose." Vivian ventured carefully.

Sherlock gestured dramatically. "Ice lolly it is! What's your favourite?"

Vivian shot her superiors a bit of a nervous glance. "Well, really, I shouldn't..."

"Go on," Sherlock said encouragingly.

"Do they still do Mivvis?"

"Not sure, I shall ask around for you. You know what my wife likes, no... _loves_? Chocolate mint..."

"Mr Holmes," Lady Smallwood said firmly.

Both Mycroft and Sherlock looked round at her. "Yes?" they said simultaneously.

Mycroft looked across to Sherlock, then lowered his head in exasperation.

"We do need to get on." Lady Smallwood reminded them.

Mycroft raised his head again. "Yes, of course." He used remote control he was holding to restart the video footage. Behind him, two screens were set up so the people behind the table could watch them so they wouldn't have to twist and crane their necks to see the huge screen behind and above them.

The sound of the helicopter hovering in front of the Appledore patio filled the room. Sherlock swiped his phone back from his brother and held it up at him in triumph before his sat down again while tucking it safely into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Do your research," Sherlock in the video footage said. "I'm not a hero. I'm a high functioning sociopath."

The footage moved to the headcam of one of the operatives near the patio. At the crucial moment, the view was briefly blocked as another operative ran in front of the camera. The moment a clear view of Sherlock was established again, he was standing there with his gun still lowered, while Gerulf Schricken raised his gun to fire at Sherlock.

The next moment his body got riddled with bullets. Gerulf fell backwards and Sherlock dropped John's pistol and instantly raised his hands. Behind him, John stared at Gerulf and, for a moment, started to move towards him.

The footage then jumped back a second or two. "... sociopath," Sherlock in the footage said.

This time the video shifted to the telescopic sight of a rifle showing several red dots on Gerulf's face as he stood upright on the patio. Several gunshots rang out and Gerulf fell out of view.

"... sociopath."

The footage then repeated of how Gerulf got shot, right before he seemed to want to shoot Sherlock who was standing there with his gun still lowered.

Kyrie swallowed seeing the images replay again and again. Though she did not feel sorry for the man, that moment she had witnessed a darkness that had been lurking inside of her husband she hadn't been aware even existed.

"I see. Who _is_ supposed to have shot him, then?" Sherlock asked impassively.

"Some over-eager squaddie with an itchy trigger finger who thought that Gerulf Schricken was about to shoot you, that's who," Sir Edwin replied.

"That's not what happened at all," Sherlock remarked. Kyrie groaned in dismay.

"It is now," Mycroft replied, his voice edged with a mild warning. Kyrie shivered hearing that tone in his voice. Usually it meant nothing good at all for the unfortunate soul who had dared to cross Mycroft's path. She realised neither of the Holmes men were men you'd want to trifle with.

"Remarkable. How did you do it?" Lady Smallwood asked.

"We have some very talented people working here. If James Moriarty can hack every TV screen in the land, rest assured we have the tech to, er... doctor a bit of security footage," Sir Edwin explained as Sherlock munched on another bite of biscuit, showing zero amount of interest.

"The irony is, most of the tech we've used... we obtained through Gerulf."

Sherlock's lips curled into a sardonic smile. Clearly he could appreciate the irony.

Sir Edwin pointed towards one of the screens in the back of the room. Sherlock was more interested in his ginger nut however.

"That is now the official version..."

Sherlock tossed a piece of biscuit towards his open mouth. Unfortunately, it missed and fell down slightly to the side of his lap. He quickly scrabbled to recover it.

"The version anyone we want to will see," Sir Edwin concluded.

"No need to go to the trouble of getting some sort of official pardon. You're off the hook, Mr Holmes. You're home and dry," Lady Smallwood said in a way that betrayed she did not condone a murderer to get off the hook so easily.

Mycroft folded his arms and gave his brother a stern look, as if he expected him to say 'Thank you' in complete and utter humility and gratitude.

"Okay, cheers."

Well, apparently that was all they would be getting from him. What a surprise.

He held the last bit of biscuit between his lips, jumped up and buttoned his jacket.

"Obviously there's unfinished business. Moriarty," Lady Smallwood started as Sherlock reached for his greatcoat.

Sherlock cut her off, talking while still holding the biscuit between his lips, causing his voice to sound a bit muffled. "I told you, Moriarty's..." He pulled one arm through the sleeve of his greatcoat, took the biscuit from between his lips and finished his sentence in a clear voice. "... dead."

"You say he filmed that video message before he died."

Sherlock looked at her while swallowing a mouthful of biscuit, still with one arm in his coat. "Yes," he finally told Lady Smallwood.

"You also say you know what he's going to do next. What does that mean?" She enquired.

"Perhaps that's all there is to it," Sir Edwin said, pointing at Sherlock. "Perhaps he was just trying to frighten you."

"No, no. He would never be that disappointing."

Kyrie recognised the 'The Game is on!' look in his eyes as he gazed into the distance. She quietly got up and pulled on one of her newer burgundy coats and buttoned it up. She finished by tying the dainty sash around her waist and wrapped her scarf around her neck. She gave it a sad look. Afternearly five years it was starting to show some wear and tear.

"He's planned something," Sherlock muttered quietly. "Something long-term. Something that would take effect if he never made it off that rooftop alive. Posthumous revenge. No – better than that. Posthumous _game_."

"We brought you back to deal with this. What are you going to do?" Lady Smallwood demanded.

"Wait." Sherlock averred.

"Wait?!" she echoed him incredulously.

"Of _course_ wait. I'm the target. Targets wait. Look, whatever's coming, whatever he's lined up, I'll know when it begins."

Sherlock put his other arm into his coat and started to walk towards the door, Kyrie following right behind him.

"I always know when the game is on. D'you know why?" Sherlock asked as he turned to face her.

"Why?"

Kyrie smiled hearing the exasperation creeping through into her voice. "Don't you know?" she said. "He loves it!"

Sherlock turned round to give her a fond look. "Ah, she knows me so well! Let's go home, Kyrie. The game is on! Well... um... It _will_ be on!"

SSS


	84. The Case of the Missing Scarf

**A/N The title of this story should be self-explanatory ;D**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 and Artemis7448 O ye of little faith! Don't you know he can be a bit slow at times? There's a reason I mentioned the scarf in the previous chapters *looks innocently***

 **Companion Teresa. Glad you enjoyed the chapter. There's a lot of extra content this episode. This chapter is a bit of a mix. Original and script. Hope you enjoy this one too!**

 **Noface Yes, I did change the picture. Someone I know was a bit too curious about my story. Someone who really has no business reading my story. Only thing that ties to me, was that picture so it had to go. Glad you still managed to find it! Yeah, I am really dreading having to write that episode. Save for a few very emotional moments, I'm not looking forward to trying to find a decent explanation for Eurus and her re-programming abilities!**

 **Elbafo Glad you liked the little twist. Had to happen. And you're right, it was so much more cruel and cold-hearted this way.**

 **IronLace Ugh, do you realise how much pressure that puts on me? I will do my best. No promises though!**

 **Anyway, enjoy this chapter. I really hope you like it. There are some extra Kyrie and Mary bits in it :-D**

SSS

"How did your appointment at Brompton's go?" Sherlock asked her quietly.

They were both in the back seat of a taxi, on their way back home.

Kyrie's mouth dropped open and she turned her face to look at him. "How...?"

He gave her a look and she snapped her mouth closed again.

"Right..." she sighed. "Mycroft."

"I may have been in isolation during that time, but you know Mycroft would never keep information like that from me."

"Then you should already know how it went as well."

"Clean bill of health, no lasting neurological or other pathological effects. I just want to know... how did it go?"

She realised he was asking her what it had been like to have to go through those tests. The fear and uncertainty that after nearly having frozen to death, something unexpected might suddenly turn up.

Kyrie gave him a small smile. "It was... not too bad. I had Mary with me."

He gave her a smile back and opened his mouth to say something, but got distracted by the chime of his phone, alerting him to a new text. Sherlock whipped it out of his pocket. "Good," he said, though sounding a bit distracted. "Ah! It looks like we are about to solve a case!" He looked practically giddy with excitement.

Okay, so the topic had suddenly jumped from her neurological check up to solving a case?

"We?" Kyrie asked him carefully.

"Oh yes, need to bring in the troops for this one!"

"What is the case about?" she asked curiously.

He gave her a sly look. "Hm, I suspect that if John would blog about it, he would probably give it a ridiculous name like, 'The Missing Scarf'."

"Sounds like a rubbish name."

He grinned. "Doesn't it?"

Sherlock's smile faded a bit and he looked down at his phone, texting a few messages. "Sorry about earlier, I disappointed you. Embarrassed you. I didn't mean to do that."

"It's..." Kyrie exhaled a deep breath. "It's fine. Just... don't be so vocal about our _personal_ life. You were always so prudent about it. I really don't understand why you suddenly feel a need to blurt out stuff like that."

He didn't respond for a long moment. "There were not a lot of people who 'understood' the precise nature of our marriage, as it was at first. Lady Smallwood and Sir Edward... They knew. The way Sir Edward looked at you... It _irked_ me."

Kyrie arched a brow at him.

"It... _irked_ you?"

"Yes." He paused for a moment. "In hindsight, what I said was maybe not as subtle as 'My husband has absolutely no need to bet for anything _but_ money,' I do believe the intention was the same. Informing someone of our personal life. Even though we didn't have one at that time."

Kyrie laughed at him. "So you finally got that one? You really didn't get it back then."

He smiled back. "It took me a while, I admit it."

"When did you realise?" she asked curiously.

"Oh," Sherlock said, his cheeks staining a bit pink. "When we started engaging in _those_ kind of activities, I started recognising some finer nuances in the non-verbal communications, or... body language, between John and Mary. The penny dropped, so to speak, when she gave him a rather provocative look and said... 'Wanna bet?'"

"I do hope you understand why I said that to Fletcher," Kyrie said with a grin.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Probably something to do with the fact that, statistically, spouses who like to make bets with each other, would wager something of a more personal nature than money."

"Aw, see? You _can_ be prudent talking about sex when you want to be."

His lips twitched into a brief smile. "Can be? For sure. Want to be? Not always."

Kyrie erupted in a hearty laugh. "I'll consider myself warned."

"That would be... prudent."

She was still laughing when the taxi pulled over right in front of their flat. The moment she got out, the door of the flat flew open and a very flustered looking Mrs Hudson stormed out.

"Sherlock!" she cried out. "What have you done?"

Another car pulled over, just as the taxi drove off after Sherlock had paid the fare.

"Ah, just in time!" he exclaimed when John and Mary got out, completely ignoring the flustered woman in front of them.

"Why are we here Sherlock?" John asked as he trotted over to them, Mary following at a bit of a slower, waddling pace.

"Here to solve a case, of course. I texted you the details earlier."

"No, Sherlock," Mary countered. "You really didn't. You just texted your utterly cliché 'Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.'"

Sherlock looked round at her with wide eyes. "I still do that?"

"Yes, Sherlock. You still do. Don't you even know what the hell you text us?" Mary asked him, sounding exasperated.

"Um, my mind is terribly fast, body can't always keep up. My intent probably got lost in translation and as a result my fingers tapped in the most likely keys."

John snorted with laughter.

"Sherlooock!" Mrs Hudson called again. "I've had people bounding up and down the stairs the entire morning, carrying boxes. Lots and lots of boxes! Please tell you're not planning to blow the place up again."

"When have _I_ ever blown up the entire place? Now the kitchen..." He stopped talking and swiftly walked past their landlady. "Come on!" he called over his shoulder. "We have a case to solve!"

Three people sighed tiredly. Mrs Hudson just threw up her hands in despair and went back inside. John bounded up after Sherlock while Kyrie helped Mary to climb up the stairs. Just as they reached the top of the second landing, they heard John cry out. "What the hell?!"

Kyrie and Mary walked in through the living room door and... stopped. Again, Kyrie's mouth dropped open. Inside the living room and, for as far as she could see, the kitchen as well, there were stacks upon stacks upon stacks of flat boxes shoved inside.

Kyrie repeated John's question, just a bit softer. "What the hell?"

"Do you have any idea how hard it was to track down the right scarf? Your scarf, as it turns out, has been discontinued for a long time. No suitable substitute. At first I hoped some department store or boutique _somewhere_ might still have one lying around. No such luck. I then enlisted Anthea's help on a quest for a suitable replacement. Apparently... _this_ is the result," Sherlock said, casually waving at the different stacks of boxes.

"I still don't understand," John said, sounding absolutely flabbergasted.

"Kyrie's scarf." Sherlock's voice gained a bit of a frustrated edge at the slowness of his friend. "Look at it! It's like a family of moths took residence in it. Several generations of them!"

Kyrie gasped indignantly. "It's not _that_ bad!"

"Yes, it is!" Sherlock insisted. "It's appalling. What's even more appalling is how long it took to find suitable replacements."

"These are all suitable replacements?" Mary asked in shock.

"No idea. Anthea made the orders. Everything that does not meet the requirements, will be sent back."

"The requirements being?"

"They have to be the _just_ the right shade of blue and violet."

John groaned in dismay when Sherlock shoved a box into his hands to check its contents, Burberry from the looks of it. "No," he said warily. "Too... purple."

"Just put it... somewhere..." Sherlock suggested. "We need to make a pile of the boxes we don't need."

Kyrie was still just standing there, the realisation just hitting her that every nook and cranny was stuffed with boxes of scarves, because her old one was ready for incineration and Sherlock couldn't abide the thought of her not having her scarf.

She quickly hid behind one of the large stacks, where Mary soon found her as she quietly bawled her eyes out.

"The evil git still manages to surprise you, huh?" Mary whispered with a smile.

Kyrie sniffed. "He can be _so_ frustrating at times," she said quietly. "No regard for my thoughts or feelings at all. And then when I least expect it, he does something like this. I mean, it's so... so..."

"Dramatic?" Mary suggested. "Well, you know him. He even says it himself. Never could resist..."

"... a touch of drama," Kyrie said with a wobbly smile. "So true! Let's... let's get this started." She then cleared a couple of kitchen chairs so they could sit down and work through the boxes.

"This one is YELLOW!"

Kyrie and Mary looked up from their current box, hearing John's exasperated yell.

"No, wait!" Sherlock called out at him. "I want to keep that one."

"Why?" John asked.

There were sounds of shuffling around, boxes toppling over, something ripping... sounded like tape.

"There!" Sherlock exclaimed.

John erupted in a full out guffaw. It made Kyrie and Mary curious enough to peek their heads around their ever shrinking stack of boxes. John pointed at the wall, a huge grin plastered on his face.

When they looked in that direction they both dissolved in peels of laughter. Sherlock had a smug look on his face. He had folded the scarf into a triangle and taped it over the lower half of the smiley on the wall, turning it into a bandit smiley.

Kyrie laughed while grabbing another box. She gasped a bit when she opened the lid. Sherlock instantly danced over to her, evading stacks of boxes as he tried to reach her.

"Found one?" he asked expectantly.

"No," she said quietly, staring at a magnificent cashmere scarf of the richest, deepest midnight blue she'd ever seen. She blinked at it.

"That's not your eye colour at all!" He sounded a bit disappointed.

Kyrie gently lifted the scarf from the box, turned around to face her husband who was standing right behind her. She then folded it in half, looped it around his neck and pulled the ends through the single loop to secure it. Kyrie looked up at him with a timid smile. "Perfect," she murmured.

He gulped and stared down at her, his eyes widened a bit. "You found me one," he stated softly.

Kyrie simply nodded at him. "Keep it," she whispered.

Before she could blink, Sherlock had captured her lips with his and hungrily sought entrance to her mouth.

Suddenly a box hit them square against the sides of their faces. Kyrie gave a startled yelp but Sherlock cursed at John and gave him a murderous look.

"Save that for later, love birds, we have a case to solve, remember?" John said with a smirk.

At the end of the day, after all boxes had been carefully inspected, Kyrie did not really know how to carry herself. There was a nice little collection of scarves hanging over the doors between the living room and the kitchen, including Sherlock's new midnight blue one. And not all of them were 'just the right shade of blue and violet' because he'd had suddenly found plenty of reasons to accept a scarf.

"Reminds me of the look you once gave Sally Donovan."

"Your eyes look like this when you... never mind that. Keep it anyway."

"Great shade of emerald, not your eye colour but it really suits you."

"Bit too violet, but it captures the stormy look when you get angry... with me."

Kyrie eyed him suspiciously when he wanted to keep the scarf for that reason. And she wondered... How many times had he made her angry, just because he liked the stormy look and shade of her eyes during such moments?

At one point, Sherlock draped a gorgeous silver bordered cashmere pashmina stole around her shoulders. It was delicate, light and floaty with just a hint of violet blue. "You're keeping this one," he said softly, his voice sounding absolutely definitive.

Her favourite one though, of all of the ten new scarves, was a simple cashmere scarf with just the right shade of blue and violet.

SSS

It was a pretty quiet afternoon at 221B Baker Street.

Kyrie was busy preparing a mild, yellow curry with chicken, spinach and butternut squash. She'd just put the lid back on the pot after a quick check and immediately walked up to lean over John's shoulder as he was typing his blog.

Mary was standing near the left most window. She was due any day now and she was suffering from pretty much every pregnancy ailment in the book. She was tired because severe heartburn prevented her to get some sleep, she was often plagued by Braxton-Hicks contractions that steadily grew more and more painful, her ankles were swollen and she could be moody as hell. Also, she regularly lacked the motivation or the energy to even think about making dinner, let alone to actually make dinner.

Luckily, she had a friend with a caring and nurturing nature who didn't mind at all to prepare dinner for two people extra at least four times a week lately.

Kyrie had a growing suspicion that the need to 'discuss potential cases', was just pretence and her friends really just wanted to be invited to stay for dinner.

Sherlock had started to complain at some point that they were taking up too much of their private time. But every time he made such a comment, Kyrie knew he wasn't serious about it. He loved the fact that the Watsons came over so frequently because it firmly cemented his belief that things really didn't have to change so much now that both John and himself were married and John even had a child on the way.

Even though Sherlock fully realised that Kyrie found it no chore at all to cook for four instead of two, sometimes even five if one of the plates was destined to go downstairs to 221A, he made it a point to ardently and thoroughly show his gratitude when the Watsons returned home. It was because of her that John and Mary could visit so often their home away from home.

"Mm, something smells good, Kirry," Mary said with a bit of a pained grimace.

"Her name is Kyrie," Sherlock said a bit sulkily, "We've been over this."

"Yes," Mary replied. "And we agreed that I like to call her 'Kirry' because she's my best friend and this is the way I like to show my affection."

Kyrie smiled hearing the discussion. She'd heard it a few times before now.

"No, we did not agree to any such thing. _You_ did."

"Exactly!" Mary said with a grin.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I'm afraid you'll just have to live with it, Sherlock," John said while typing his blog. "She's not to be persuaded."

John briefly stopped typing and looked up at his wife. "Can you believe this git? Five years ago he couldn't even remember her name to save his own life. It was always 'Kylie this' or 'Kira that'... Carla, Clara..."

Mary threw back her head and laughed heartily.

"Yes, thank you John, for reminding me," Sherlock replied dryly.

Kyrie smirked but remained silent otherwise. She was trying to read John's blog...

 _\- And we're back! Sorry I haven't updated the blog for such a long time but things_  
 _really have been very busy. You'll have seen on the news about how Sherlock_  
 _recovered the Mona Lisa. He described it as "an utterly dreary case" and was_  
 _much more interested in the case of a missing horseshoe and how it was_  
 _connected to a bright blue deckchair on Brighton beach._

Kyrie grinned. Yep, that sounded a lot like him!

 _I'll try to write everything up when I get chance but it's not been missing portraits_  
 _and horseshoes that have taken up my time._

 _I'm going to be a Dad._

 _I mean, I thought I'd spent the last few years being a Dad to Sherlock, but it_  
 _really doesn't compare. The baby runs all of our lives. (Maybe not THAT different_  
 _to Sherlock then!)_

 _If I'm not changing nappies on a practice doll, I'm buying nappies._  
 _Don't ask, Mary insists; I truly hope the real baby won't smell THAT bad._  
 _I've fought in Afghanistan and my best friend once faked his own death_  
 _but none of that_

Kyie tried to swat John's hand away because his fingers were obscuring some of the text.

"Kyrie, bugger off!" John told her sternly. "You can read it when I'm done."

"Oi! Baker boy" Mary called out, "Behave!"

John sighed but refrained from commenting.

 _It's terrifying and amazing and the biggest adventure_  
 _I've been_

Kyrie started when Sherlock suddenly stabbed his multi-tool knife down into a large pile of letters on the mantelpiece.

"If this gets any better, I'm gonna get _two_ knives," he said gleefully, looking over at John before he took his usual seat.

"It pays to advertise," John muttered, eyes fixed on his screen, his fingers typing.

Sherlock looked at his phone. Mary, who was standing near the window, rubbed her very pregnant tummy with one hand while pressing her lower back with the other. "So, what about Moriarty, then?"

"Ooh, I have a plan."

Mary grimaced and rubbed her bump again. Kyrie looked over at her. "You okay, darling?"

"I would be, if baby would allow me a moment of peace!" Mary complained.

Sherlock looked up, slightly pouting now the attention was on Mary's baby bump instead of his 'plan'.

Kyrie winked at Mary.

"What's your plan then, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled. "I'm going to monitor the underworld – every quiver of the web will tell me when the spider makes his move."

As he was talking, Kyrie could hear he was also tweeting. She quickly checked his newest tweet and grinned. _#221Bringit!_

"Good plan!"

"Thank you... _Loves2Sing_..." he said dryly.

Kyrie decided it was better to not respond at all. But one look at Mary's face told her she knew exactly what Sherlock was getting at. She blushed furiously and was mighty grateful that at least John seemed to be oblivious to what was going on around him.

"Please, don't allude to sex when I'm around," John muttered dryly. "That is one mental image I really don't need to see. _'I'm divorced of my feelings_...' my ass!"

Okay, _seemed_ being the operative word...

"Thank you, Sherlock," Kyrie muttered darkly. "You did it again."

"Don't worry," he said, sounding a bit distracted as he was still dicking around on his phone. "I'll make it up to you, later."

John's fingers stopped typing. "WHAT did I just say, Sherlock!" he cried out. Mary dissolved in a fit of laughter and Kyrie walked over to the sofa to throw a pillow at Sherlock's head...

She had started following him using the name 'Loves2Sing'. The moment he noticed the new follower, he'd known it was her.

 _He came stalking towards her and showed her the name. "Loves2Sing? Really, Kyrie?"_

 _She looked at him, eyes wide. "Well, it's true! I love to sing!" She defended herself._

" _Yes," he whispered in her ear, "In more ways than one!"_

 _Her eyes widened even more when she realised how_ _ **he**_ _was interpreting her Twitter handle. Great..._

John's voice pulled her back from her memory. "So, basically your 'plan' is just to sit there solving crimes like you always do," John said.

Sherlock smiled across to him. "Awesome, isn't it?!" He energetically jumped up from his chair, stepped across to the mantelpiece and swiftly ripped the top letter off the pile.

Now that Mary's past was somewhat of a shared secret between them, Mary really seemed to love being part of the investigations. Well, not the actual investigations because her huge belly was in the way, but she loved being there when the clients told their stories.

When a case was solved, the boys would return home at Baker Street so John could write his blog and Kyrie would make them dinner.

The evening when John wrote his 'Dusty Death' blog entry – about the client who had drowned but upon the post-mortem turned out to have sand in his longs – Kyrie made them frittata with chard, red onion and feta. A pregnancy friendly dish. Sherlock hated it.

"I thought you didn't like feta?" he asked suspiciously.

"I do like feta." Kyrie retorted.

"I've never seen you eat feta."

Kyrie sighed in annoyance. "I used to like spinach with feta but I had it too often, so yes, I stopped eating feta for a while. Doesn't mean I don't like it."

Sherlock pursed his lips in annoyance. He refused to eat the dish and went out to get some fish and chips.

When John wrote his 'The Wrong Thumb' blog, Kyrie made them pan-seared salmon with lentils and leaks. Sherlock eyed the food suspiciously and could only be persuaded to touch the salmon. He did like the salmon, just not the rest that came with it.

Sherlock was... sometimes juggling several cases at once. When John was studying the photographs of one case, Sherlock was already tapping away on his phone about another case.

"Sherlock..." John tried, in vain.

"It's never twins," Sherlock said idly, not even bothering to look up at John.

John wrote his new entry and called it 'The Duplicate Man' and when he was done, Kyrie served them steamed cod with some veggies.

One look at it made Sherlock purse his lips in annoyance. "Kyrie, my dear," he started dryly, "I understand you want to prepare wholesome and healthy meals, especially when John and Mary are eating with us... But for once could you please take _my_ tastes into consideration? I'm not eating this."

"Sherlock..."

" _Not_ touching this." He folded his arms and gave her _that_ look.

Kyrie sighed. There would be no point whatsoever in even trying to convince him otherwise... She just knew he would treat himself to fish and chips again.

The blog entries 'The Circus Torso' and 'The Canary Trainer' were another result of Sherlock multi-tasking...

Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his laptop open on his knees. He was also rapidly tapping on his phone at the same time.

Kyrie couldn't help but shooting him worried glances. He'd hardly taken a break the last few days!

John was standing at the lit fireplace while Mary was reclining in his chair. She had her hand on her belly, rubbing it every now and again when she was plagued with a painful twinge.

Kyrie wordlessly handed her a mug of Camomile tea which Mary took with gratitude.

"Hopkins, arrest Wilson. Dimmock, look in the lymph nodes," Sherlock told the two people he was simultaneously Skyping with in his rapid fire way.

"Wilson?" The woman asked. Kyrie had never seen her.

"Lymph nodes?" Dimmock asked on his turn. Him she only knew by name.

"Sherlock..." Mary tried to catch his attention.

"Yes. You may have nothing but a limbless torso but there'll still be traces of ink left in the lymph nodes under the armpits. If your mystery corpse had tattoos, the signs'll be there," Sherlock told Dimmock, without even stopping for breath.

"Bloody hell! Is that a guess?" Dimmock said, sounding a bit too much accusing to Sherlock's tastes.

"I never guess," Sherlock replied, an annoyed look crossing his features. He instantly clicked his video chat with Dimmock away.

"Sherlock..." Mary tried again.

"So, he's the killer? The canary trainer?" The woman, Hopkins, ventured to ask.

"' _Course_ he's the killer," Sherlock responded while distracted by the case on his phone he was working on too.

"Didn't see _that_ coming," she murmured.

"Hm, naturally." Sherlock closed the video call with her as well.

"Sherlock, you can't go on spinning plates like this," John told him.

His eyes widened and lifted from his phone as his mouth fell open.

"That's it! The place was spinning!"

Kyrie heaved a resigned sigh. She set apart some Bolognese sauce so she could serve it to Sherlock with some pasta later. She used the rest for lasagna. Finally a dish she knew he liked and he wasn't even eating.


	85. No shit, Sherlock!

**A/N**

 **Artemis7448 I'm not saying anything *insert look of total innocence right here***

 **Elbafo These chapters were really hard to write because I had tears in my eyes myself. I'm glad that you like the meaning of the title. That scene is basically what inspired the entire story. Well, that scene and the very first one, where Mycroft tries to persuade Sherlock to get married. And yes, though he does not show it, he does feel pretty torn up about Kyrie being in such a state. Something he will lightly touch on again much later in the story.**

 **DreamonAlina Aww, I'm so happy you loved this chapter. It was a great joy to write. I didn't want Sherlock to buy AND new coats AND new scarves for Kyrie at the same time, but I did want her to have a new scarf at some point. Then I just saw this little vision of the entire gang surrounded by piles of boxes and I knew I had to write it.**

 **EllemichelleP I know what you mean with missing the everyday things. My ex told me he no longer loved me when our youngest was not even 6 months old. So, from the time she was 1 and we were divorced, I've been raising them on my own. The girls visit their dad every other weekend. It was hard, but we pulled through. I'd love to meet a decent guy again to just cuddle on the couch with.**

 **Enough about me. You guys know what's going to happen next. And I just have to say... I LOOOOOOOOOOVED writing this! And yes, I no the 'title' has been done to death, but I really, really couldn't resist. I just HAD to write that in! Enjoy!**

SSS

Kyrie glanced at Mary's belly and worried her lip. "Mary, are you okay? You look rather peaky and... about ready to pop, actually."

Mary grimaced at her, keeping one hand at her lower back while she soothingly rubbed her belly with her other hand. Kyrie's eyes widened when she saw how taut her belly became.

"I know," Mary said, "I don't think these are Brixton-Hicks contractions any more either. I think, I think we should call the boys." She nodded her head with a delirious smile. "I'm having the baby!"

"Ooooh Lord," Kyrie cried out and she grabbed for her phone to call Sherlock. Of course the twat couldn't be bothered to answer her call. She hustled towards the dinner table and sent papers flying everywhere. She finally found Mary's phone and handed it to her.

"Can you call John? I'll keep trying Sherlock," she said, her voice a bit higher than usual. She was scared to death!

Mary nodded and hit the speed dial. Her face twisted in anger the longer her call remained unanswered.

"Pick up you fucking bastard!" Mary growled before she howled in pain.

"Geez Mary, how long have you been having contractions? Real ones?"

"For a while now," she panted. "I thought the boys would be back by now. Sherlock did say it would be an easy case and I didn't want to upset you."

"Bloody hell! How long have you known him? When is a case ever easy with him when _he_ says so?"

Mary laughed and moaned at the same time. "You are right," she panted. "You are so bloody right... Oooow," she then groaned in a low voice. "They are really starting to hurt now."

Kyrie saw she was trying to alleviate the pain in her belly and lower back at the same time.

"Do you want me to put some counter pressure against your back? You concentrate on you belly. I've read pressing a cushion against it helps."

"Yes," Mary panted. "Thank you, yes!"

Kyrie helped Mary waddle towards the sofa. She handed her a cushion which Mary instantly pressed against her belly.

She tried calling Sherlock again, to no avail of course.

When Mary moaned again Kyrie pressed against her lower back so Mary could concentrate on the pain in her belly. She had her eyes closed in concentration and used breathing techniques to breathe through the pain.

"Never again," she panted. "Help remind me, never again. That bastard!" She cried out.

Kyrie tried to call Sherlock, Mary tried to call John. Neither husband bothered to answer the phone.

"Oh!" Mary suddenly exclaimed. "I feel like I'm sitting on her head!"

Kyrie laughed at that as she kept putting pressure against Mary's back.

"Shouldn't we get you to the hospital?"

"I'm not moving my ass until my husband is here!" Mary said in a low voice. "I'm having the baby right fucking here if needs be!"

Kyrie paled at the fierceness of her words.

She called Sherlock again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again. She gave up after 59 tries.

When at long last she heard the door below them open and close again, Kyrie's head shot up.

"One moment, Mare," she said through gritted teeth. "I think two doomed souls just decided to drag their dawdling behinds back home!"

Kyrie got up and waited for the boys right in front of the open living room door.

She heard John giggle as he walked in front of Sherlock and climbed up the first flight of stairs.

"A jellyfish?!" he exclaimed, sounding utterly bewildered and amused at the same time.

"I know," Sherlock replied dryly.

"You can't arrest a jellyfish!"

"Well, you could try."

"We _did_ try." John shot back.

Neither of the boys saw Kyrie standing there, fuming at them.

John just pulled out his phone as Kyrie erupted at them, as violently as the Vesuvius.

"WHERE THE **HELL** HAVE YOU TWO BEEN AND WHY HAVEN'T YOU ANSWERED YOUR FUCKING PHONES?!" Kyrie bellowed from the top of her lungs.

John and Sherlock's heads shot up.

"Oh God," John squeaked.

Sherlock quickly glanced at his phone and gave her such a startled and frightened look, that Kyrie would have doubled over laughing under usual circumstances.

"Fifty-nine missed calls," Sherlock muttered. "We're in a lot of trouble."

"NO SHIT, SHERLOCK!"

SSS

Very soon afterwards, they were all in the car, speeding towards the nearest hospital. Sherlock and John had both carried Mary down the stairs because she was no longer able to climb down the steps due to the intensity and short intervals between contractions.

Mary was in the back seat of the car, flanked by Kyrie and Sherlock. Mary was clutching her abdomen while Kyrie rubbed her lower back and put counter pressure on it when she needed it, her dress hiked high up her legs.

"Ow!" Mary cried out. "Oh my God. Oh my God!" She pressed both her hands against the roof to brace herself against the pain.

In the driver's seat, John kept repeatedly throwing worried glances into the rear-view mirror. "Relax," he tried to say in a soothing voice. "It's got two syllables..."

"I'm a nurse, darling. I think I know what to dooo," Mary said on a pained moan.

"Come on then, come on," John urged her on.

"Reeeee..." Mary cried out in pain.

John pursed his lips and mimicked lamaze breathing. "... lax," he finished for her, blowing out the breath.

Mary was writhing in agony in the back seat. Counter pressure in the lower back was, at this point, no longer enough. Though Kyrie had no experience whatsoever in childbirth, she could feel in her gut that the baby was coming soon!

Kyrie was mimicking the lamaze breathing techniques as well but Mary wasn't paying her any attention.

"No, just drive! Please, go, just drive! God, drive!" She screamed in pain, making Sherlock glance across to her momentarily, pausing just briefly from frantically typing on his phone.

"Sherlock!" John told him sternly. "Mary!"

"Why? Kyrie is doing an admirable job!"

"NOW!"

"That's it Mary," Sherlock said instantly, his eyes glued back on his phone again. "RE..." He pursed his lips and sucked in a breath.

Kyrie helped Mary turn in the back so she could kneel on the seat. "Don't you start," she said savagely..

He turned his head and gave Mary a wide-eyed startled look, even though he managed to finish the word quite calmly, "...Lax."

An instant later Mary squashed his head hard against the side window as she slammed her hand against the side of his head.

"John?" Mary called out and she briefly braced her other hand against Sherlock's head so she could turn around in the seat again.

Kyrie gasped when she looked down, her eyes wide as saucers. Mary's water just broke!

"John, I think you have to pull over," Mary cried out desperately.

"Mary, Mary..." John tried to calm her down.

"PULL OVER!" Mary yelled.

Sherlock turned round, noticed Kyrie's startled expression and looked down towards Mary's legs. His mouth fell open and his eyes widened in horror. "Oh my God!" he exclaimed.

Mary screamed and sobbed. John needed but one glance over his shoulder to pull the car to the kerb and bring it to a screeching stop as Mary continued to scream.

The moment the car came to a full stop, Kyrie got out on unsteady feet. One look at John told her he was in shock. Another look at Sherlock told her he was not so much in shock but his brain seemed to have frozen solid.

Kyrie was starting to panic herself. She had absolutely no idea what to do and in the meantime Mary had scooted down in the back seat in a lying position. She was about to give birth!

"Sherlock, turn around and google.. um... emergency birth. John do you think you can handle calling an ambulance?"

John stood stock still, he kept staring blindly ahead. John Watson, saviour of lives, could think on his feet in any situation of emergency, except when his own wife was about to give birth!

"John, call a fucking ambulance, now!"

John blinked at her outburst and finally made the call.

"Sherlock!" Kyrie snapped at him.

He instantly turned around. "On it, on it!" Sherlock snapped back.

"Well? Have you got something? No, don't turn around! Keep looking at your phone 'cause I need you to talk me through this, got it?"

He nodded his head furiously. "Yes, yes... Okay, um... step one... Stay calm," Sherlock read aloud. "The very last things mum-to-be needs..."

"Sherlock, for fuck's sake!"

"Right. Um... call an ambulance..."

"Good grief," Kyrie moaned in despair. "Get to the birthing bits, you dolt!"

"Yes, of course... do we have towels, or a sealable bag by any chance? For the placenta?"

Mary screamed.

"I'll take that as a no then," Sherlock muttered. "Okay, okay... check if the baby is crowning, when it is, then it's time to push."

There was no time for sensitivities or prudish behaviour. Kyrie hiked up Mary's dress and relieved her of her panties.

"Crowning!" she yelled, feeling faint. "Oh Lord, she's crowning, Sherlock!"

"Instruct the mum-to-be to wait for each contraction and then bear down and push."

Kyrie could hear the panic in his voice.

"Did you hear that Mary? And you know this, you are a nurse. You can do this, Mary!"

Mary got another contraction. She braced herself and did as she was instructed howling like mad as she did. Kyrie flinched at the intensity of Mary's scream. Soon however, the baby's head was born and Kyrie was laughing and crying at the same time.

"Baby's head is born, Sherlock. What do I do now?"

"Don't attempt to help remove baby once his or her head is on its way out," Sherlock said, his voice sounding calmer now he could concentrate himself on the facts. "Once the baby's head is born, gently support it with your hands, but do not pull or tug. When it's time to deliver the shoulders, instruct the mum-to-be to push."

And so, while Sherlock read aloud the instructions he'd found on Google, Kyrie helped Mary give birth to a healthy baby girl.

"John, give me your jumper," Kyrie requested, her voice raw with emotion. When John didn't comply, Sherlock walked over to him and took off the jumper for him. Even he stood there, subdued, not entirely sure what to say or do next. He just wordlessly handed Kyrie the jumper. She gently handed Mary her new born daughter by placing the baby on her belly, skin-to-skin, protected against the elements as Kyrie draped the jumper over the small infant.

"Is she breathing?" Kyrie asked when she noticed Mary gently run her fingers along the babies nostrils before briefly pushing the jumper away and rubbing her along the side of her alarmingly small little ribcage.

"Yes," Mary whispered, tears of pain, fatigue, relief and happiness streaming down her face. "Don't worry, we've got this."

Soon after, medical help finally arrived and mummy, daddy and baby Watson were on their way to the hospital.

Kyrie watched the ambulance drive away and suddenly her bottom lip started to quiver, then tears started to fall. All the tension and nerves she had tried to block out earlier, made themselves known. Sherlock wordlessly pulled her into his arms and allowed her to get it all out.

"You were wonderful," he whispered, rubbing his jaw against the top of her head.

She couldn't answer; she just quietly cried, pressed against his chest. Until she pushed herself away from him and emptied her stomach on the curb...

Several hours later, they were in a waiting room just outside the maternity ward of the Royal London Hospital waiting for John. Sherlock already texted him to let him know they'd arrived.

When John finally appeared from a room down the ward, he approached them with a sheepish smile on his face, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand. "Hey..." he said a bit awkwardly. "That was... something..."

Sherlock just nodded his head, not really sure what to say.

"So," John grinned. "Um, they are both fine, Mary and the baby. No stitching needed. You were... terrific."

Kyrie blushed profusely. "I had no idea what I was doing," she admitted.

"Well, even with the help of some _emergency birthing_ website, you did brilliantly. And it was good that you didn't try to cut the umbilical cord with Sherlock's knife, as he suggested. You have no idea how many people try to be clever and cut the umbilical cord in a non-sterile fashion, risking infection."

"I hadn't gotten to that part yet," Sherlock muttered, defending himself.

John chuckled and looked at the ground, before looking up at them again. He jerked his head in the direction of the room he'd come out of. "Let's go, there's someone who anxiously wants to see you two." He then led Sherlock and Kyrie to Mary's room.

Kyrie cautiously entered the room, Sherlock right behind her, not entirely sure what to expect. She found Mary sitting upright, cradling the baby in her arms, wrapped in warm pink blanket, a tiny pink hat on her little head.

"How are you?" Kyrie choked out, blushing and feeling slightly embarrassed for being an emotional mess.

"Just brilliant," Mary said, "Exactly as you were. Thank you, Kyrie. For everything."

Kyrie fervently shook her head. "Don't," she warned her best friend. "I'm already blubbering enough as it is." She looked down at the tiny little human, safely cradled in her friends arms. "She's so precious."

Mary smiled. "Yeah, she is."

"Name?" Sherlock managed to say, ask, his voice oddly devoid of any sarcasm and wit.

"Haven't really settled on one yet," John admitted, who had entered the room after Sherlock. "We were toying with Olivia."

"I love that name!" Kyrie gasped.

"Eh, it's not gonna be Olivia," Mary said.

"No?" John asked, a surprised look on his face.

Mary shook her head. "No." She gave John a pointed look when she handed him the baby. John smiled down at his precious load and turned towards Kyrie.

"Here," he said.

Kyrie took a tentative step back and held up her hands defensively. "No, no. I-I'm not good with babies. I don't know the first thing about... Oh..." she gasped, when John gently lowered his daughter to her and her arms raised on instinct, to carefully receive the little bundle.

"Just support her head, like this," John instructed her, adjusting her arm.

And suddenly Kyrie was holding a baby. When she looked down, she couldn't help but fall in love with the tiny little human, feeling hot and cold at the same time. She barely noticed Sherlock walking round her. When she looked up at him, she expected to find him looking down at the baby. Instead, he was quietly examining her with a guarded look on his face.

She then felt his arm move around her back and she watched as he carefully brought his index finger to the teeny-tiny little hand that peeped out from under the blanket.

Impossibly small little fingers curled around his finger and Kyrie could feel Sherlock's posture stiffen at the unexpected contact. After a few moments he started to relax and she noticed his lips twitch with the smallest of smiles.

"Look at that," Mary stated proudly. "You are a natural at this!"


	86. I Just Want to Know

**A/N O gosh, look at you lot! All tied up in a knot over the possibility of a Holmes baby! No Holmes baby this chapter, but, there is some banter about it. And Molly and Kyrie have a little talk together.**

 **Thank you for your amazing reviews. I'm so happy you guys liked what I did with the delivery scene and Kyrie holding the baby. Yes, that did stir her hidden maternal instincts. If or when there will be an actual Holmes baby? That is for you to question and for me to write ;-) I know everything!**

 **Enjoy this chapter :D**

SSS

John and Mary's place was suddenly the home of a little family, now that they had brought their little baby girl home. For the moment, they just wanted to celebrate in private. Only a few select people were invited... for a reason as it turned out.

Mary and John were seated on the sofa while Mary was cradling little Baby Watson. John had his arm drawn around his wife and Mary was holding the baby's teeny-tiny little hand. The both of them looked tired like hell and deliriously happy. There were gift bags and flowers on the coffee table and helium balloons were floating on strings behind the sofa.

The Watson's home was a tidy and homey little place. Wooden stairs with white bannisters led upstairs, blue curtains framed the living room window. There was a small white cabinet on the wall that showed a variety of little knick-knacks... but it wasn't Baker Street. Kyrie already missed Sherlock's organised chaos that always awaited them at home.

Sherlock seemed completely at ease of course. His presence commanded attention no matter where they went. He was standing in front of the stairs, juggling several cases at once, as usual.

Kyrie on the other hand, was completely in the moment. She was ecstatic and she couldn't stop snapping pictures of her friends, only to pout because none of the pictures came out right. Either John had his eyes closed, or Mary's mouth gaped open. There was always something. She sighed in frustration. Was it really so damned difficult to take one decent bloody picture?

Sherlock was tapping away on his phone, stealing brief glances at Kyrie every now and again. It only made her become flustered even more because she felt mortified about not being able to snap a nice picture. That one picture she'd once made of him? When he had put on that ridiculous woolly pom pom hat with earflaps? Yeah, she'd deleted it instantly. It was horrible! Like something from a horror film!

"Kyrie."

She looked up when Sherlock called her and she walked over to him, leaving it up to Mrs Hudson to take photographs with her camera.

Kyrie couldn't help but notice how Molly Hooper, who was standing next to Mrs Hudson, kept shooting them curious glances while she tried to sip casually from her glass of champagne.

Sherlock briefly stopped the frantic tapping on his phone and showed her the screen. He had pulled up his gallery and in it Kyrie found a wide variety of beautifully taken pictures of the new parents and little Baby Watson.

Kyrie felt tears spring to her eyes. She briefly pressed her face against his arm and affectionately rubbed his back.

"Don't worry, my dear," he said softly as his words were only intended for her. "You've got other talents."

Kyrie narrowed her eyes at him. "You'd better be talking about my singing talent, Mr Holmes.

Sherlock's smile widened into a devious grin but he refrained from commenting. Kyrie felt a blush heating her cheeks and she gently elbowed him in the ribs. "Behave!" she whispered at him.

Again, Molly sent them a curious look, as if she was wondering why they were standing together so often. Kyrie still didn't fully trust Molly. The woman didn't seem to be able to get a hint. Even after their sensual tango at the wedding and Sherlock kissing her full on right in front of all the wedding guests... Molly had managed to turn up today all prettified with her styled curls, a nice red dress that didn't look horrible and even a nice cardigan that wasn't garishly looking.

She decided to just ignore it. This day was about her friends and Baby Watson, Molly could give Sherlock moon eyes all she wanted... it wasn't going to make him pay her more attention.

She quickly walked back to look at the results of Mrs Hudson's photographs.

"Has that come out?" Mrs Hudson asked nervously. She looked at the screen and made an exasperated noise. Kyrie smiled. She was glad to know she wasn't the only one rubbish at taking photographs!

"They never come out when I take them!" Mrs Hudson complained.

Molly put down her glass of champagne. "Let's have a look," she said quietly and took the camera from Mrs Hudson.

"Aww. She's so beautiful," Mrs Hudson cooed.

Molly fiddled with the camera and then handed it back. "Have another go," she advised.

"What about a name?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"Yeah, have you finally settled on something yet?" Kyrie pitched in.

"Catherine," John said with conviction.

"Uh, yeah, we've gone off that," Mary said with a cheeky grin.

"Have we?" John asked in surprise.

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Well, you know what _I_ think," Sherlock said, not taking his eyes from his phone as he was texting again like a maniac.

"It's not a girl's name!" John and Mary cried out at the exact same time. They chuckled and Kyrie looked round at Sherlock with a fond smile, just catching his own humoured grin.

It suddenly struck her how much he'd matured over the five or so years. She recalled images of him during those early years, when she'd been forced to uproot her entire life, wedded to a strange man she didn't know.

She recalled his boyish charm, how he'd been so much more disconnected from social interaction and his emotions. He'd worn his curls slightly longer back then, his complexion had been more pallid and unhealthy looking... and his eyes, had been free of the little laugh lines she could now see.

Now, his cheeks were less gaunt and his complexion no longer so sickly looking. The boyish look was...well, not entirely gone, but in front of her she now saw a man, with the vague beginnings of a few lines in his forehead to prove it. When he briefly glanced up at her, he gave her a knowing smile as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. And she wondered... how much had she herself changed over the years?

"Sherlock," John said, his voice sounding positively evil and mischievous, "If you really want a baby to be named after you, I suggest you put one in Kyrie's belly and start your own little Holmes baby collection."

"Holmes and Watson; the next generation!" Mary squealed in delight.

Kyrie felt the blood rise to her cheeks. Those words made a little heartstring trill in delight. She was still looking in Sherlock's direction and saw his full attention was settled on her. His throat worked convulsively and she knew he could read her face like a book.

Thing was... they'd never even discussed having children. She had no idea how he felt about it, if he even wanted children. If he didn't... that might pose a problem. Because the moment John placed the baby into her arms that first time, Kyrie knew she wanted to be a mother herself one day.

Well, he hadn't immediately dismissed the idea or balked at the entire notion. So, maybe he was open to the suggestion?

Molly spluttered in shock. "John, Mary! That-that's not really considerate now is it? Surely they told you...?"

Mary arched her brow at Molly. "Told us what, Molly?"

Kyrie gulped hearing that fake innocent tone. Meaning, Mary was going in for the kill.

"Their marriage... it's... it's not..."

"Not what, Molly?" Mary prodded.

Sherlock didn't even look up from his phone. Either he was tuning out the conversation entirely, or he just didn't care.

Kyrie shot Mary a nervous glance. Although... How many times had she not said she would have a little heart to heart with Molly... and then never did? Maybe it was for the best?

"...real." Molly said, sounding almost hopeful.

"Oh Molly," Mary sighed. "Wake up and smell the coffee, honey. Have you not been paying attention at our wedding? That whole 'forced marriage' business was years ago. They've evolved. Their marriage has evolved. Their _relationship_ has evolved. Not really sure how much clearer I can be, except maybe for saying that they have a _full_ relationship... meaning... they have discovered sex. He has, actually."

Kyrie groaned.

Sherlock's lips just twitched a bit, losing the fight to not smile.

Molly nearly choked.

John cried out, "Mary, not in front of the baby!"

"Oh relax!" Mary huffed, "It's not like she understands any of this yet."

"But still!"

"Ex-excuse me, I'm... I'm just gonna get a bit of fresh air," Molly said with a strangled voice and hurried out of the front door.

"Great," John snapped. "Well done, Mary."

Mary squinted her eyes at him. "John, it had to be done. She's been pining after Sherlock for long enough now.

Kyrie sighed. "Mary's right, John. She did need to hear this. I'm just sorry I never had the guts to confront her myself. And, of course, it didn't exactly help that Mr Suck Up here, always knew just how to play her."

Sherlock's brows snapped together and he instantly looked up from his phone.

"Don't," Kyrie warned him. "You know it's true. You've been leading her on for years and never bothered to set the record straight. Not even when you two became friends."

Sherlock blinked, his mouth still open forming the words he'd wanted to say, but he didn't say them. He nodded at her and looked properly contrite.

"I'll be right back. I think I'll have that conversation with Molly now," Kyrie said.

"Good luck!" Mary called after her. Kyrie gave her a small smile before she too went outside.

SSS

Kyrie found Molly outside, sitting on the small decorative wooden bench Mary had placed in front of the house.

Her head was buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed quietly.

"Are you okay, Molly?" Kyrie asked her, trying to keep her voice soft and inviting.

Molly's head shot up and her eyes widened when she saw Kyrie standing there.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice a bit edgy. She immediately looked down.

"Just want to see how you're doing. I imagine this must have come as a bit of a shock if you, if you didn't know."

Molly sniffed and looked over to her. "I did," she said, nodding her head and sniffing. "That's the sad thing, I did know. I-I just didn't want to believe it."

Kyrie slowly approached her. "Can I sit down?"

Molly wiped at her eyes and nodded at her. "I'm so embarrassed," she admitted with a mirthless chuckle and she looked away as Kyrie sat down next to her.

"I just couldn't help myself. I've been in..." She closed her eyes and abruptly stopped talking. She breathed deeply and then bravely continued. "I've been in love with him for so long. Probably fell for him within half an hour of first meeting him."

Kyrie smiled at her but didn't reply. She figured it was best to allow Molly to get this off her chest.

"I was so jealous when I found out he was suddenly married, but the fact that it wasn't a marriage for love... I don't know, it gave me hope, I guess. You know, one day you'd divorce and he would be free again."

Molly started crying again. "I'm a horrible person!" she cried out and Kyrie felt at a loss for words. She had no experience with this.

"Of course not," she tried to convince the other woman. "You've helped Sherlock so many times. You helped save his life even. I know... he doesn't love you in the way that you'd hoped, I do know he cares deeply for you and respects you."

Molly shook her head. "He shouldn't," she whispered. "He really shouldn't... and... if he knew... He wouldn't!"

"Knew what, Molly?" Kyrie hesitantly put her hand on Molly's shoulder, not really sure if the gesture would be welcome or not. Well, she didn't shake it off so that was probably a good sign?

Molly shook her head again. "You'll hate me and you'll tell Sherlock and then he'll hate me too and then... I'll have nothing left."

"I won't hate you, Molly," Kyrie promised. "If I can forgive Mary for shooting and nearly killing Sherlock, I'm sure I can forgive you for whatever wrong you think you did me."

Kyrie waited and for a moment she thought that Molly would keep silent. She removed her hands from her face however and Kyrie noticed how empty her eyes suddenly looked, except for the remorse and shame.

"When you were in the hospital..." Molly swallowed hard. "I hoped... I hoped you'd die. I _wanted_ you to die. So Sherlock would be free again and... I- I could be his shoulder to cry on and, perhaps become more."

"Oh Molly," Kyrie said softly. "I'm sure you didn't _really_ want me dead. You fantasised about the possibility because _that_ possibility could perhaps give you what you wanted. It just makes you human and... I can't hate you for it and I don't think less of you for it either."

"Why not?" Molly instantly shot back.

"Because I know what it's like to love him, knowing he doesn't feel the same way."

Molly sniffed and looked at her and Kyrie could read the silent question in her eyes. "At first I was nothing more to him than a – companion of sorts. You know, like John. Not even like John, in fact. I was always... less."

Kyrie paused. It still hurt to think back to that period. She'd fallen hopelessly in love with her own husband, a husband who'd been completely enthralled by another woman. Even after they'd found their footing again, things had been strained for a long time and only started to change for the better in Dartmoor. And then, in the blink of an eye, she'd lost him completely, or so she'd thought.

"He didn't love me back then. He'd kissed me once – Gerulf paid us an unwanted visit," Kyrie explained, seeing the look on Molly's face. "Sherlock found out that a kiss helped speed up his thinking process, instead of slowing him down and distracting him as he'd always assumed... Thing is, he wanted me to kiss him so he could get a 'boost' not caring if that hurt me or not."

"He's never been the most considerate of men," Molly said with a weak smile. "You say he didn't love you back then, but... he loves you now, doesn't he? Kind of obvious, really. Otherwise you wouldn't still be together."

"Honestly, Molly?" Kyrie said softly. "I don't know what he feels for me. I'm still not sure Sherlock feels and thinks in terms of 'love'. He never told me he loves me, but... he can't stand the thought of me leaving him. So, I tell myself he does love me otherwise I'd run mad."

"He never...?" Molly asked, her voice sounding incredulous.

"Nope," Kyrie said with a small smile.

They sat together in silence for a while.

"What's he like?" Molly asked suddenly. "I know it's personal and you don't have to tell me, but... I'd so like to know..."

"How he is in a relationship?" Kyrie tried hesitantly. If Molly was referring to what he was like in bed, those were details she would not part with! Thankfully, Molly nodded her head.

"Don't make it better or worse than it really is. I just... I just want to know."

Kyrie nodded at her. "Well," she started. "He can be much like you already know him; demanding, a pain in the behind, childish, churlish, loves to throw tantrums and sometimes I don't exist at all for him. He can be very pre-occupied and every distraction makes him lash out."

She thought whatever else she could say without giving away too much personal information. "His idea of a romantic evening is flopping down that big head of his in my lap, forcing me in uncomfortable positions if I want to continue reading and then he won't stop pestering me until I give in and massage his head. Try turning a page of your book with the hand you are holding the book with. Because every slight interruption in his 'massage' makes him tut in disapproval."

Molly smiled hearing that.

"It's always about what _he_ wants whenever _he_ wants it. There's no middle ground. He'll give me a glare if he doesn't want to be kissed, but can be very persuasive and insisting when _he_ does want to be kissed. He knows how frustrating he can be, so he gives me that damned smile of his that makes me week in the knees whenever he knows I'm angry with him. And he always makes it right."

Kyrie looked at her hands for a moment. It seemed impossible to love an impossible man and... here she was, loving an impossible man. "He _always_ makes sure to make it up to me, when he knows he did me wrong. When he wants to be, he can be the sweetest thing and absolutely charming."

"It sounds, lovely," Molly said with a small smile. "It sounds lovely... and lonely... and hard... and amazing at the same time."

"That pretty much sums it up, yeah," Kyrie agreed. "Is- is that enough for you? Can we... move on now?"

Molly stood up and straightened her dress. She wiped at her eyes and rolled back her shoulders in a decisive manner. "How do I look?" she asked.

Kyrie looked at her and smiled. "Better," she said. "Much better."

SSS

The two women entered the Watson's home again and three heads napped up at them expectantly. One head remained bent over a phone, eyes fixed to the screen, fingers dancing over the keys.

Kyrie shot Molly a look that said, _"See what I mean?"_

Molly giggled a bit.

"Molly, Kyrie... We would love you to be godparents," John suddenly blurted out.

They both looked up at him. Kyrie smiled and laughed in delight, but Molly paled, as if she couldn't believe the words she was hearing.

"If you..." John started, but Molly cut him off.

"Really?" she asked, sounding so damn hopeful that Kyrie nearly started to cry herself.

Mrs Hudson beamed at the two of them. "So lovely!" she exclaimed.

John stood up and looked over to Sherlock. Molly and Kyrie went to the sofa to sit down next to Mary. There was a brief look between Mary and Kyrie, before Mary gently handed the baby over to Molly.

"And, uh..." John said, looking at Sherlock, who couldn't be bothered to look up.

Kyrie smirked at Mary when John looked skywards and spread out his hands that seemed to say, " _Why_ do I even bother with this?"

"... you, too, Sherlock?" he then said.

"You too what?" Sherlock asked, still typing on his phone.

"Godfather? We'd like you and Kyrie to be godparents."

Sherlock finished his text, hit 'send' and instantly started typing a new message while responding.

"God is a ludicrous fiction dreamt up by inadequates who abnegate all responsibility to an invisible magic friend."

Kyrie rolled her eyes at his inconsiderate remark.

John was not about to give up though and he instantly replied, without batting an eye, "Yeah, but there'll be cake. Will you do it?"

Sherlock briefly glanced at him before returning his attention back to his phone. "I'll get back to you."

Kyrie grinned at Mary. "Are you sure?" she asked.

Mary shrugged her shoulders. "Not sure about that lump, but you helped deliver her. The boys were absolute rubbish!"

"Hey! I was in shock!" John defended his inadequacy that evening. "You, my wife, were giving birth to my daughter... I panicked."

"You're a doctor, no, you were an _army_ doctor! You shouldn't have panicked at all!"

"I'll do better next time," John said with a grin.

Mary huffed. "Who says there will be a next time?"

"Sherlock did help a bit, he talked me through the process," Kyrie said, trying to make amends for the Consulting Detective who'd panicked right along with John.

"He googled info on his phone, you could have done that too!"

"Not while I was also helping you!"

Mary grinned and looked over at Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" she said.

"Hmm?"

"Just give us a Holmes baby and all will be forgiven."

She started laughing when Kyrie groaned and his her face in her hands, Molly kept silent and focussed on the baby and John laughed like a hyena as he headed for the stairs... and Sherlock? Sherlock didn't say a word.


	87. The World's Your Clam

**A/N Just some general fluff, Mary/Kyrie friendship and Sherlock being an arse...**

 **Anyway, thank you all for leaving me a review! It's so wonderful to read how much you enjoy the interactions between Sherlock and Kyrie, and als Kyrie's interactions with the others like Molly and Mary. Sorry to disappoint, but though Molly and Kyrie have talke things through, that doesn't mean they will become great friends. There's no 'connection' between them. Not like Kyrie and Mary, those two just evolved to be like two peas in a pod.**

 **How Sherlock feels about having children will be touched upon in a later chapter.**

 **Oh, guess what I'm writing tomorrow? The end of The Six Thatchers *cries* Well, I think I will get to the point so I can write the ending tomorrow... But, for now we have some fluff first!**

SSS

Several weeks later they were all together for Baby Watson's baptism. The vicar, an elderly man, was standing at the beautiful stone carved font in the church. John and Mary reverently stood this right, then Molly, Kyrie and Sherlock. Mrs Hudson and Greg were also there, watching the ceremony a bit more on the other side of the font.

Kyrie watched as the vicar blessed the water. "Father, we ask you to send your blessings on this water..." He then leaned forward and pulled his fingers through the water, creating the sign of the cross. "... and sanctify it for our use this day, in Christ's name."

She gently poked Sherlock with her elbow when his eyes, as per usual, were glued to his phone. He could be such a rude arse at times! Of course, Sherlock completely ignored her.

The vicar shook the water from his fingers and turned to the parents. "Now, what name have you given your daughter?"

Mary and John smiled at each other.

Kyrie couldn't suppress her curiosity as Mary turned to the vicar. "Rosamund Mary," she stated solemnly.

Sherlock briefly stopped texting and looked up from his phone. "Rosamund?" he asked, his brows furrowed.

"Means 'rose of the world.' Rosie for short." Molly leaned in to tell him. Sherlock briefly glanced at her before he returned his attention to his phone.

"Didn't you get John's text?" Molly asked him.

"No. I delete his texts. I delete _any_ text that begins, 'Hi.'"

Kyrie and Molly both raised their eyes skywards.

" _No_ idea why people think you're incapable of human emotion," Molly said, her voice blistering.

"Molly!" Kyrie warned the other woman lightly. Kyrie could very damn well handle her own husband! She leaned in to him. " _I_ also told you, Sherlock, meaning you've been muting me again when I was telling you something important."

Sherlock opened his mouth as if he was about to retort.

"Don't even think about it," Kyrie hissed at him. "Now put away your phone or you'll be sleeping on the sofa for the rest of the week!"

Sherlock instantly lowered his phone and put his hands behind his back.

Kyrie rolled her jaw from one side to the other in annoyance when she could still hear his fingers tap on the phone. She shot him a look that was supposed to tell him he wasn't fooling her one bit, but he looked straight ahead of him.

"And now, godparents," the vicar said, holding little Rosie who made it very audibly clear she did not like to be held by this man. "Are you ready to help the parents of this child in their duties as Christian parents?"

"We are," Kyrie and Molly said simultaneously.

Kyrie rolled her eyes when Sherlock didn't make a peep. She elbowed him again, a bit harder this time.

Suddenly, behind Sherlock's back, male SIRI's voice blared from the phone's speaker. _"Sorry, I didn't catch that."_

Kyrie pulled her lips in a thin line, Mary narrowed her eyes at Sherlock and John just... closed his eyes. Then SIRI beeped. _"Please repeat the question."_

Sherlock carefully ventured a brief glance at Kyrie. He grimaced seeing the look on her face. Good, he knew he was in trouble then!

"Sofa?" he asked with a quiet voice.

"You guessed it."

His shoulders drooped.

SSS

And thus a new life begun. It was strange and heart-warming to see how often Mary and John found an excuse to stop by.

They were absolutely in love with their little baby girl Rose. Unfortunately, Rosie seemed to have turned into the spawn of the devil. Though happy as a clam during most of the day, at nights she would cry and scream her lungs out, depriving both of their parents of some much needed sleep.

One day, Kyrie was dropping by at their place as she hadn't heard of them in a while. She'd ordered two small pink t-shirts with custom made texts and she was dying to show Mary! Shirt number one had the following text on the front:

 _50% John_  
 _50% Mary_  
 _100% Rosie_

The other shirt had on the front:

 _Sherlock_  
 _is actually a girl's name_

And on the back:

 _I'm actually_  
 _Sherlock_

The moment Mary let her inside, a hysterically crying Rosie on her hips, Kyrie could see that Mary was on the verge of tears herself. She looked dead-tired and had that desperate mummy-look in her eyes that said: 'Please make her stop crying, because I'm gonna snap and do something I will regret for the rest of my life.'

"Mary! Honey, why didn't you call me?!" Kyrie cried out, seeing the state her friend was in. Mary's curls were an unruly, uncombed mess, her cheeks showed traces of dried up tears, she was wearing a baggy shirt and baggy pants... She looked about ready to collapse.

"So this is why we haven't heard from you guys!" Kyrie rolled her eyes at Mary and she took Rosie from her arms. She brushed past Mary into the living room and the infant girl instantly calmed down. It sent Mary completely over the edge.

"I'm a rubbish mum!" Mary sobbed. "I can't even comfort my own baby and... you breeze in here and she's suddenly a sweet little angel again. I can't do this!"

"Mary, calm down!" Kyrie told her. Rosie instantly gave a little wail again. "Mary, you are a trembling mess of anxiety and Rosie feels that and she responds to that. I'm calm and that's rubbing off on her. That's all. You are a great mum!"

"I'm so tired!"

"Okay, give me her things, I will take Rosie with me and look after her for a bit. You get some sleep. Rosie needs her mummy to be well-rested and happy because that will make Rosie happy too."

That evening, Sherlock returned home after helping Lestrade with a case, he still couldn't believe the butler had done it, and found Kyrie standing near the left most window in the living room. She was oblivious to him entering the living room as she was a bit pre-occupied.

She was cradling little Rosie against her chest and she'd probably meant to have Rosie rest her head on her shoulder. But the little tike didn't. She leaned backwards, her head a bit wobbly, but held securely in place by Kyrie's hand.

Kyrie was swaying and singing a song, completely lost in the moment and Rosie looked up at her. If Sherlock didn't know any better, he'd say she had the most adorable look of surprise on her face he'd ever seen. Not that he would ever voice such thoughts of course. He did have a reputation to uphold after all.

The thing that got to him the most, were the words Kyrie was singing. It was old, played and sung to death and he couldn't count the times he'd rolled his eyes hearing that song yet again. But this time... this time the words hit home.

 _Non, rien de rien_  
 _Non, je ne regrette rien_  
 _Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait_  
 _Ni le mal, tout ça m'est bien égal_

 _Non, rien de rien_  
 _Non, je ne regrette rien_  
 _Car ma vie, car mes joies_  
 _aujourd'hui, ça commence avec toi!_

All Sherlock could do, was stare at her, his throat constricted because it felt as if she was directing the words directly at that one small organ inside of him. That organ that used to be this shrivelled little pathetic thing, not used to feeling so damn much, until she came along and made him _feel_.

He quietly took off his scarf and Belstaff coat, unwilling to disturb this lovely little scene until he'd reached them. When she did notice him, she stopped and little Rosie tiredly blinked her eyes. He went to stand in front of Kyrie and slid his hand behind her head to tilt her face upwards.

"I regret nothing either," he said softly, right before he captured her lips with his. Soft, sweet and fruity. Kyrie.

"Will you sing that again?"

She blushed prettily as he took her in his arms, making sure Rosie was shielded safely between them, and he slowly started to sway when Kyrie started the song anew and ended with the words that reverberated in his heart.

 _No, absolutely nothing_  
 _No, I regret nothing_

 _Because my life, my joys  
_ _T_ _oday, they begin with you._

SSS

They had kept swaying, standing close together, long after Kyrie had finished singing. It's how John and Mary found them when they quietly entered through the living room door. Mary looked a lot better, rested, and dressed in smart clothes instead of the baggy ones.

She smiled and went all teary-eyed the moment she caught sight of little Rose. "Hello darling!" she cooed quietly. Rosie tried to turn her head in the direction of her mother's voice and the instant she found the right direction, Rosie hurled her tiny body that way, demanding to be handed over to her mother.

Mary laughed and cried at the same time while John just stood there with a sheepish smile plastered on his face.

"Sorry," he said, his voice a bit rough. "Sorry for falling off the radar like that. We... obviously... struggled a bit." He pulled his lips in a thin line and his eyes became a bit watery at the admission. "Thanks, for... looking after Rosie."

"Oh John," Kyrie sighed. "You know it was no trouble at all, my pleasure really. Just promise me, if you feel overwhelmed again, or tired... too many broken nights. Just bring her here. And go out again, just the two of you. Because... John and Mary are just as important as Daddy and Mummy, don't lose sight of them, okay?"

"Aww!" Mary said and she quickly handed Rosie to John. The moment Rosie wanted to protest, John blew her a raspberry which seemed to delight her to no end, mummy instantly forgotten. Mary pulled both Kyrie and Sherlock in for a hug. "Thank you, guys! I mean it!"

Sherlock quickly tried to disengage himself from the affectionate gesture and he cleared his throat. "Well, just like Kyrie said... Just, drop by whenever you want. Doesn't always have to be for a case, eh?" he said with a smile, reaching out his hand to rub a finger along Rosie's cheek. She happily gurgled at him in response.

"We'll keep that in mind, we promise," John said with a smile before he took his wife and daughter back home.

SSS

Mary handed Rosie over to Sherlock one day and Kyrie giggled when she noticed his eyes widen in shocked surprise when he saw the text in elegant curly letters on the front of Rosie's shirt.

 _Sherlock_  
 _is actually a girl's name_

He then grinned widely. The moment was absolutely perfect when Miss Rosie shot him the most adorable gleeful little smile imaginable.

"Check the back!" Kyrie said, trying hard to contain her laughter. Sherlock arched his brow at her but then carefully turned Rosie in his arms so he could see the back of her shirt.

The moment he read the words, he let out a deep rumbling laugh.

 _I'm actually_  
 _Sherlock_

"We need to make sure she gets a new one when she grows out of it," he said.

"Yep." Mary agreed, her eyes glinting. "Her name is still Rosie though."

Sherlock grinned at her. "That's not what it says on her t-shirt!"

SSS

When Rosie was 5 months old she was able to sit in a baby seat for short periods of time. Kyrie bought a high seat for the girl so that Miss Rosie had a clear view of whatever was going on around her. And when Rosie was old enough, the high seat could be changed into a low seat and table at which Rosie could play around with paint and pencils and clay...

Sherlock tutted a bit annoyed when he noticed the new contraption in the living room, claiming she was spoiling the little girl.

"Of course I am!" Kyrie groused at him. "She's my godchild, I'm allowed to spoil her rotten!"

One day, Kyrie returned from doing some shopping. John and Mary had come by pretty early to drop off Rosie for the rest of the day.

The plan had been simple... They would drop Rosie off so they could have a quiet day for themselves, and they would then have a romantic dinner for two at a fancy restaurant. Kyrie planned to make her and Sherlock spaghetti alle vongole. For Rosie she had prepared stewed pears smoothly mashed with potatoes in advance.

To make sure they'd actually go, John had made the reservation at the Clove Club two weeks prior, food and drinks already paid for during the booking. So, Kyrie was more than a little surprised when she returned home and found Mary lying on the sofa, fast asleep, with one foot up on John's lap as he sat on the other end, his hand on her leg, also asleep.

She couldn't contain a broad smile spreading on her face when she spotted Sherlock standing in front of the fireplace, still wearing his camel coloured dressing gown over a black shirt tucked into his equally black trousers.

Kyrie leaned against the door frame and watched as Sherlock sighed in exasperation.

"As ever, Watson, you see but do not observe," he said, turning towards Rosie who was sitting in her baby chair, just the low part, that Sherlock had perched on John's seat.

"To you, the world remains an impenetrable mystery, whereas to me it is an open book. Hard logic versus romantic whimsy. _That_ is your choice. You fail to connect actions to their consequences. Now, for the last time..."

Sherlock bent down and picked up Miss Rosie's rattle, that jingled as he lifted it. "... if you want to keep the rattle, do not _throw_ the rattle, hm?"

Kyrie, who was all too familiar with Miss Rosie's latest form of entertainment, placed a hand over her mouth as a precaution. She looked on as Sherlock presented the rattle to her. Rosie gurgled happily, took it from his hand and promptly threw it in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock turned his head to give the sleeping Watson's a despaired look, until he noticed Kyrie standing there.

"How long have you been standing there?" he asked, giving her a slightly accusatory look.

"Long enough to witness your attempt to impart some of your wisdom onto our godchild," she said with a chuckle. She then nodded at the Watsons. "What happened?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "I offered to make them some tea before their big night. When I brought them their tea, they were like that."

Kyrie placed the groceries on the table and walked over to him. "You offered them tea?" she asked with a surprised smile.

"It's what you always do, don't you? Offer tea at every opportune and inopportune moment?"

Her smile faded from her lips. "Yes," she finally said. "Apparently I do. Um, looks like they will be joining us for dinner." She tried to get her throat to turn back to normal again. "I better get some more then. Because apparently, that's what I do too... make dinner."

She turned on her heels and quickly left through the living room door.

"Kyrie!"

Kyrie didn't answer him. She bounded down the stairs and willed herself to maintain an impassive expression as she'd seen him do so often. It was complete nonsense to get more ingredients of course, because even if John and Mary would sleep through most of the day, they'd still have plenty of time to get to the restaurant. So, no reason at all to rush back to Billingsgate Market with a taxi to get more clams.

It had all seemed so perfect. Kyrie would babysit Rosie, offering Sherlock a warm home to come home to and offering John and Mary a warm home away from home. But Sherlock was right, she was always there to offer tea and dinner. Seemed like that was all she was good for. Tea and dinner. And sex, of course, whenever Sherlock felt amorous.

Sherlock, the brilliant Consulting Detective who could read your life by just looking at you for a few seconds. John, the retired Army doctor turned civilian doctor, who could break every bone in your body while naming them. Mary, ex-secret operative agent with a keen mind and an even keener attitude who took crap from no-one. And Kyrie... the resident babysitter, tea and dinner lady. Stark contrast, wasn't it?

Kyrie aimlessly wandered about. It would have been foolish to return home with clams she wouldn't need and it would also be foolish to return home without them. Maybe she should just stay away for a bit. Let him take care of Rosie and dinner for once. Ah, but then there was always Mrs Hudson standing by whenever she needed to lend a hand.

Maybe she should just stay away for a bit anyway. Sherlock could serve tea at opportune and inopportune moments himself.

In the end, she found herself seated on one of the wooden benches in the Paddington Street Gardens. People who passed her by shot her curious glances while Kyrie did her best to ignore them. She spent... hours... just sitting there, watching people walk by and feeling generally useless.

One person who came to sit next to her, refused to be ignored however. Kyrie rolled her eyes when she recognised who had joined her. Great, she had now officially ruined John and Mary's day off, and considering the time she'd spent away, she likely also fucked up their dinner plans.

"Let me guess, you hacked into MI6 and used Mycroft's tracking software to find me?"

"I'd love to say yes to that," Mary said. "But I guess I just know you too well."

"I never come here." Kyrie recalcitrated. "How could you possibly know I'd come here?"

"Aw, you really want me to do a Sherlock? Right now?"

Kyrie couldn't keep a small smile from tugging at her lips. "Is that what we call it now?"

"Hm, yes. Okay. Let me know how I do. You had a little spat with your hubby; no doubt he was being an insensitive cock again. So, you ran off under the pretence of getting more food, knowing you wouldn't really be needing more food. It would be silly to waste more money on clams and... well... Billingsgate was already closed anyway. So instead of taking a taxi there, you decided to do some shopping at the nearest supermarket instead but realised that would be silly as well, because that's not what you said you'd do. Nearest place to said supermarket where you can sit and think?" Mary spread her arms around her.

"Good to know I'm like an open book to you. No surprises here, right?"

"What's going on?" Mary asked her.

Kyrie shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing really," she said with a sigh and she got to her feet. "Let's just go back to Baker Street, make sure you and John get ready in time for your dinner at least. Sorry I screwed up the rest of your day."

"Sit. Back. Down," Mary ordered her in a voice that brooked no argument.

Kyrie blinked her eyes a few times and then did as she was told.

"Talk to me."

Kyrie shook her head.

"Come on, you are always there for me. Let me return the favour for once."

When Kyrie stayed silent, Mary leaned back on the wooden bench. "Or, we could just stay here in complete silence for the rest of the day," she said with a sigh. "I have to say, it's good to know even you can't be perfect all of the time."

Kyrie shot a look at Mary. "Perfect?" she choked out. "I'm the furthest thing from it!"

"More like the closest thing to it."

Kyrie scowled at her best friend.

"Why do I get the sense that this little meltdown has to do with you self-image?"

Her words were met with silence yet again.

"Please don't make me kick whatever's troubling you out of you. Just so you know, I am perfectly capable of doing such a thing, but I rather wouldn't."

Kyrie closed her eyes and could feel her cheeks heat with embarrassment. "When you were a secret operative agent, that must have been pretty exciting and dangerous, right?"

"I guess, but... that's not a life I would want to get back to," Mary said with frown, clearly confused what Kyrie was getting at.

"Still, because of that life you gained quite a skill set."

"True, a skill set that is now obsolete and useless because I lead an entirely different life now."

"Really? So, why exactly did Sherlock ask you to help him and John with a case?"

"Oh, is this because I went out on a case with them?" Mary groaned. "Of course, we were all out while you stayed home to look after Rosie. I'm so sorry! You must have felt so excluded. Do you want to go along with them next time?"

Kyrie groaned at her. "And do what, exactly, Mary? Serve the boys some tea and crumpets while they check out a crime scene? Run after them with dinner in case they need a little energy boost? Oh, or maybe I could snog Sherlock silly so he can get a 'mind boost' and solve the case in three seconds flat."

Mary started to laugh and Kyrie cast her an angry glare.

"I'm sorry!" Mary said, tears of laughter in her eyes. "I'm so sorry! I really don't mean to laugh like this... It's just too funny!"

"No, Mary," Kyrie said with a sigh. "It's really not."

Mary instantly sobered up and stopped laughing. "Kirry, so what if you're not as smart as Sherlock? Who cares you don't have John's medical knowledge or my background as a seedy freelancing secret agent? You are just as important as any of us and you bring just as much to the table."

"Yes, dinner," Kyrie scoffed.

"And what is so wrong with that?" Mary asked. "You are the home we come back to. Even me and John. After all the crazy stuff is over and done with, we... well... we need you. And your tea. And your cooking."

Mary gently nudged Kyrie. "Maybe you should come on a case with us some time. Or just with the boys. It would be fun for you and I think it would do you some good. You know, watching your hubby do what he does best."

Kyrie smiled again, a real one this time. "That _would_ be rather nice. I rarely get to see that side of him."

Her smile suddenly faltered. "I'm so embarrassed though. I ruined your day and... I've spent so many hours away just... sulking... You won't make it in time now for dinner."

Mary grinned. "Do you have any idea what the boys are doing now?" she asked.

"Brooding and being angry with me?" Kyrie hazarded a guess.

"They are trying to make dinner."

Kyrie's head shot up and looked at Mary with an incredulous look in her eyes. "John and... and... Sherlock? He can't cook to save his life! He used to think his morning tea just... appeared!"

"I know. Isn't it hilarious?" Mary chuckled.

"So, what are they making?"

Mary doubled over with laughter this time. "John thought that between the two of them they could figure out how to make that pasta with clams you'd planned to make."

"Why don't we do some shopping before we head home? Just in case." Kyrie suggested with a grin.

"Good call!" Mary agreed.

SSS

 **So, reviewers, care to make a guess how dinner – in the next chapter – turns out?**


	88. Biscuit Day

**A/N Some more fluff AND we delve a bit deeper into the actual episode. When you get to it, the song Sherlock plays is Furious by David Garrett.**

 **Guest Yeah, I really love writing Mary and Kyrie. They are really great together. That's why I'm adding more scenes into this episode, while I still can :-(**

 **EllemichelleP It was bound to happen at some point. Kyrie is just a regular person who got squashed right in the middle of all the mayhem. Having a great voice doesn't really help in solving cases so she does feel a bit insignificant. I'm glad too that Mary managed to cheer her up. More to come in this chapter because the boys didn't sit still either! Oh, if you go to Youtube and search for 'Kyrie and Nero' you should find a clip where he says her name about 1 minute in.**

 **DreamonAlina Kyrie is a bit more assertive now. Though she still has her insecurities, she also knows Sherlock would go through hell and back to keep her with him. It makes her feel confident enough to relegate him to the couch when she has to ;-)**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 I really liked to have Mary be the one to go after her. It really was a moment where Sherlock would have failed to give her the right kind of support and, even though she loves John, it really had to be Mary, her best friend. The insecurities have always been kind of there, but Mary's talk and what happens when she returns, does affirm for her that she too has a significant role in the group, however small she herself may think that role is.**

 **Enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think! I really appreciate you taking the time to send me virtual love, support and reviews :-)**

SSS

When they returned at 221B Baker Street, Kyrie felt a bit anxious, right until she opened the living room door and stepped inside.

Her mouth dropped open. The dinner table was beautifully set. A cheery white and violet chequered tablecloth covered the table. From the looks of it, one of the boys had managed to persuade Mrs Hudson to part with her finest china and silverware for the evening. Two candles were lit and in the middle there was a vase with two red roses. Four plates were set and adorning each plate, was a folded serviette in the shape of a swan.

The moment Kyrie's nose was assaulted with a foul scent, resembling burnt rubber with a spritz of lemon, she wasn't sure if she was going to laugh or cry. She'd been so anxious to return home, afraid both Sherlock and John would think she was a complete loon, and then she found they'd bent over backwards for her.

At the moment, both of the boys had absolutely horrified looks on their faces when they noticed their wives had returned.

"We thought that spaghetti with clams was an easy enough recipe," John said humbly as he walked into the living room, fists shoved deeply in the pockets of his trousers.

"It's John's fault, he tried to cook," Sherlock mumbled, a dejected look on his face.

"Yeah, well, if you had found me some decent instructions, you utter cock!" John grumbled.

"Have you _seen_ how many different spaghetti with clams recipes you can find on the internet?" Sherlock groused at him. " _You_ try and find the one Kyrie had planned to use."

"Let's see what you boys cooked up," Mary said with glee and made a beeline for the pot. Before John or Sherlock could stop her, she had lifted the lid.

"Yeah... Wow..." she stuttered.

"Well?" John asked her, his voice sounding hopeful.

"Honey... Let's put it this way. Stick a fork in it, 'cause it's done. I could use these clams for bullets!"

Sherlock and John gave each other a few disappointed glances, their shoulders drooped.

Mary shot Kyrie a look. "Something elaborate and impressive or something quick and easy?"

"Quick and easy," Kyrie said. "Just, flop down on the sofa and cuddle with John. I already ruined enough of your day."

Sherlock quietly moved past her, put water in the electric kettle and turned it on.

"What are you doing?" Kyrie asked him suspiciously. When she looked at him, she noticed he looked a shade paler than usual.

"Making tea," he said, trying to sound casual but not succeeding entirely. "I have it on good authority that lapsang souchon is an excellent tea to go with dinner. Unfortunately John still won't touch it. Do you think the Kenyan blend would be an... acceptable alternative?"

Kyrie could no longer contain herself. She turned around, raised herself on her toes and pressed her lips against his, needing to feel that kind of connection. He was less responsive than usual, probably too aware of John and Mary's presence, but he did briefly put his hands on her hips to briefly deepen the kiss, before he pulled back and place a tender kiss on her forehead.

"The Kenyan blend would be excellent," she said with a smile, before she set to work to prepare dinner.

She decided on one of the most renowned Italian dishes... pasta al burro e parmigiano, better known as pasta Alfredo. Easy to learn but difficult to master and make it taste heavenly.

First, Kyrie grated a huge chunk of reggiano parmegiano cheese and then she put a large pot of water to a boil for the fettucine. With some of the cooking liquid she then continued to make the sauce, whisking constantly as she added small cubes of butter, one piece at a time, until they'd melted completely. In the meantime she cooked the fettucine al dente.

Kyrie then added the grated parmegiano, bit by bit, making sure it was completely incorporated before adding more. Lastly, Kyrie added the pasta to the sauce, tossed the pasta to evenly coat it and added just a bit more of the cooking liquid. She served the pasta on the plates, topped with extra cheese and freshly ground pepper.

Mary and John were already enjoying the tea that Sherlock had made them. They applauded when Kyrie set the plates in front of them. Kyrie blushed furiously because pasta Alfredo wasn't exactly 'haute cuisine'.

"I'm sorry this isn't the five course menu you ordered at Club Clove, I'll..."

"Forget about it," John said instantly. "Club Clove can't hold a candle to 221B Baker Street anyway!"

Kyrie smiled at him. "Oh, but what about..."

"Rosie is asleep," Mary assured her. "She loved the pears and mashed potatoes by the way. Made a bit of a mess of it. I came and find you right after. Don't you think John and Sherlock did a fine job cleaning it all up?"

"Yeah, thanks darling," John said just a bit sarcastically, but kissed his wife on her cheek anyway.

"How about a toast?" Mary suggested.

"Toast away," Sherlock said. They all raised their teacups.

"To Sherlock," Mary started. "The unmatched brain and intelligence of our little operation."

Sherlock smiled at her and nodded his head in acceptance.

"To John," she continued. "The brave soldier, bringing the medical know-how and some much needed humanity to the mix..."

Even Sherlock smiled slightly in acknowledgement of that statement.

"...to me, the black sheep of the lot..." she grinned when John, Kyrie and Sherlock cleared their throats to make disapproving noises.

"Fine..." she amended with a chuckle. "To me, ex-super agent extraordinaire and kick ass mummy."

She then looked at Kyrie, a warm smile gracing her lips. "And last, but certainly _not_ least... To Kirry – _Kyrie_ ,"she quickly amended for Sherlock's sake as he was already scowling, "The warm beating heart and our very own 'Home Sweet Home' we can always turn to and can always depend upon."

"Hear, hear," Sherlock and John said in unison. They all raised clinked their tea cups together and they shared a dinner that not even Club Clove could have topped, because it was laced with love and friendship, creating a dish impossible to improve.

After dinner, Sherlock felt like showing off with his violin. A mischievous smile played on his lips when he drew his bow across his violin with such ferocity and intensity, Kyrie nearly forgot to breath. His fingers danced over the strings with a speed and precision she hadn't seen or heard him use before. He kept a close eye on her throughout his play, taking in and revelling in every nuance of her responses. Kyrie knew exactly what he was going for. The git.

She retaliated by making him play 'La Vie en Rose' by the immortal Edith Piaf and she sang the song with such emotional conviction, she could see the hairs in his neck stand on end from where she was standing.

Well, at least he now knew what she was going for as well. Get rekt.

SSS

A few days later, John was sitting in a bus on a sideways-facing seat. Ugh, he was so tired! Rosie had been at it again during the night! He had his eyes closed but a smile played on his lips. He couldn't thank Kyrie enough for stepping in whenever he and Mary could use an extra hand.

Thanks to her, he and Mary could create moments for themselves, to catch their breaths. She'd been so right, John and Mary were just as important as Mummy and Daddy. Without those small moments where they could just be 'John and Mary', John wasn't sure what the strain would have down to their marriage.

When his phone chirped an alert, John blinked open his eyes and retrieved his phone from his pocket to look at the message.

 _Baker Street? Tomorrow five PM?_  
 _Lestrade says he has a belter._

John smiled briefly, then pursed his lips to think of an answer, before he looked at the next message:

 _Mary says it's fine. She's here now._  
 _I think they want me out of the way._  
 _I don't like it. Who knows what they will discuss!_

He chuckled and put the phone away. A couple of people walked along the gangway heading for the rear of the bus and John noticed a young woman with long red hair sitting a few feet to his right on a forward-facing seat. She met his gaze and smiled at him. John smiled back politely and then looked away.

Hmm, a belter, eh? He wondered what Lestrade had in store for them. He then groaned a bit. Sherlock was right though... Who knew what the girls would be discussing when he and Sherlock were out of sight and out of earshot? No doubt they would rehash every hot and steaming little detail of their love life. He got flustered just thinking what those stories might detail and he pelted from his seat the moment the bus pulled up at the bust stop.

As he walked along the side of the bus and caught a glimpse of himself in the side window, he noticed he had a large plastic daisy tucked behind his ear. He grinned widely when he realised he'd never removed it after he'd put it there when he was changing Rosie's nappie that morning. He chuckled when he plucked the flower from behind his ear.

SSS

The next day, 5 PM sharp, John walked in through the living room door. He sniffed the air appreciatively.

"Well, something smells amazing!" John said with a wide grin.

"I know, I'm planning on telling about the case in minute detail so I can wait for... whatever she's making," Lestrade said, chuckling a bit.

"Good to know you so easily take advantage of my wife's generosity. I have a mind to no longer invite you on 'Biscuit day," Sherlock drawled from his usual position in his arm chair.

A tea towel promptly landed on his head. He smiled slightly as he plucked it from his face.

"You have a 'Biscuit day'?" Lestrade wanted to know.

"Hmm, always the day after I solve a case," Sherlock said, his hands steepled just under his mouth, his eyes closed. "Like clockwork really. I can even predict what kind of cookies or biscuits Kyrie will make, depending on how hard the case was. Which usually isn't that hard. I really hope you have a tough one for me. I haven't had home made ginger nuts in a while."

Kyrie chuckled lightly from where she stood in the kitchen.

"Oh, yeah," Lestrade said, grabbing a dinner chair to make himself comfortable. "So, it was David Welsborough's fiftieth birthday."

Kyrie carried a tray with tea things into the living room. She'd made a full pot of milky oolong tea, a recent favourite of Sherlock's. As she poured the men their tea, Greg continued his story.

"His son, Charlie, called via Skype. Sadly, he couldn't be at the party because he was in Tibet at the time. He was up in the mountains with a few friends. Connection was rubbish and the altitude was getting to him a bit. Anyway, Charlie wanted to settle a bet of sorts with his friends. Apparently, he had a Power Ranger stuck to the bonnet of his car at home and his friends didn't believe him. Charlie asked his dad to send him a picture as proof, which he did and then the connection was lost."

Kyrie could tell that, even though he had his eyes closed, Sherlock was listening intently to every word Lestrade was telling him. He was probably trying to envision the entire scene in his mind.

She placed Sherlock's tea on the small table next to him and then handed Greg a cup and saucer which he took in thanks.

"A week later..." Lestrade said, before taking a sip of his tea. "This is something else," he muttered, peering at the content of his cup.

Sherlock smiled. John flopped down into his chair and took the cup and saucer Kyrie handed to him. "Yeah?" he asked, trying to prod Greg into continuing the story.

"Well," Greg said, smacking his lips a bit. "Something really weird happened."

Sherlock's smile grew even wider, before it faded a bit. He was concentrating.

"Drunk driver – he's totally smashed, the cops are chasing him," Lestrade told them, taking another sip. "... and he turns into the drive of the Welsborough house to try and get away. Unfortunately for him, he lost control over the car and he smashed straight into the back of Charlie's car. There... was an explosion."

Kyrie placed the freshly baked biscuits on a plate and smiled. She walked over to John and Greg and offered them her treats.

"Ah thanks, you're a doll!" Greg said, grabbing a few of the biscuits from the plate. "Anyway, the drunk guy survived; they managed to pull him out, but when they put the fire out and examined the parked car... they found a body. Well, the remnants of a body, by that time it wasn't much more than a burned skeleton."

John absently took a few biscuits from the plate and he leaned forward in his chair. "Whose body?" he asked.

"Charlie Welsborough, the son," he replied.

"What?" John asked, a flabbergasted look on his face.

"The son who was in Tibet. DNA all checks out. The night of the party the car's empty. Then a week later... the dead boy's found at the wheel."

Sherlock, still keeping his eyes closed, chuckled in delight.

"Yeah, I _thought_ it'd tickle you," Lestrade said as he reached for his briefcase that was on the floor next to his chair.

"Have you got a lab report?" John asked him.

"Yeah," Lestrade said as he rummaged in the briefcase he'd put on his lap. "Charlie Welsborough's the son of a Cabinet minister..."

He pulled out some folders and handed John a sheet of paper. John let out a silent, 'Oh,' and nodded in understanding.

"... so I'm under a lot of pressure to get results."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and was visibly caught off guard for a moment when he noticed Kyrie perched on the armrest of his chair, holding out the plate with biscuits for him. Ginger nuts. He smiled in delight.

"Who cares about that?" he said as he helped himself to a handful of ginger nuts. "Tell me about the seats."

"The seats?" John asked, furrowing his brows in puzzlement.

"Yes. The car seats," Sherlock replied.

John started reading the sheet of paper as Sherlock sat up straight and held out his free hand to take the folder from Greg. He opened it and looked at the contents.

"Made of vinyl... two different types of vinyl present," he muttered. He looked up in thought. "Was it his own car?" he asked, munching on a biscuit.

"Yeah. Not flash – he was a student."

Sherlock returned to his former reclined position in his chair. "Well, _that's_ suggestive."

"Why?"

"Vinyl's cheaper than leather."

Greg gave him a confused look. "Er, yeah, right."

"There's something else," John said, not taking his eyes from the document Greg had given him.

"Yes?"

"According to this, Charlie Welsborough had already been dead for a week."

Sherlock stared at John, a delighted smile curving his lips. "What?" he breathed in surprise.

"The body in the car, dead for a week."

"Oh, this _is_ a good one," Sherlock said with glee. He gestured at the biscuits. "Ginger nuts, this case..." He looked over at Greg. "Is it my birthday?"

"No, your birthday was..." Kyrie began, but Sherlock clamped his hand over her mouth.

"Never mind that, my dear," he said, still looking at Greg. "Do you want help?"

Greg drew in a long breath. "Yes, please."

"One condition," Sherlock said, removing his hand from Kyrie's mouth and taking another bite from his biscuit.

"Okay," Lestrade agreed.

"Take all the credit."

Kyrie grinned as John and Greg shared a brief look together.

"It gets boring if I just solve them all," Sherlock continued, sounding rather magnanimous.

"Yeah, you _say_ that, but then John blogs about it and you get all the credit anyway," Greg huffed.

John laughed at that and gave the medical report back to Greg, giving Sherlock a look. "Yeah, he's got a point."

Greg continued, "Which makes me look like some kind of prima donna who insists on getting credit for something he didn't do."

"Oh, I think you've hit a sore spot, Sherlock," John quipped.

Kyrie smiled seeing the startled look on Sherlock's face as he tried to process what was going on.

"... like I'm some kind of credit junkie," Greg finished.

" _Definitely_ a sore spot."

Greg waved in Sherlock's direction. "So _you_ take all the glory, thanks..."

"Okay," Sherlock said, still looking quite bewildered. Kyrie couldn't help herself and fondly ruffled his curls.

"... thanks all the same," Greg said, without looking very grateful. He sighed. "Look, just solve the bloody thing, will you? It's driving me nuts!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Anything you say, Giles," he said in a long-suffering tone.

Both John and Greg gave him a look, Greg not looking very happy. Kyrie snorted with laughter and Sherlock quickly gave Greg a cheeky grin. "Just kidding."

Greg eyed him dubiously before he bent over to start packing away his paperwork. Sherlock instantly turned towards Kyrie and silently mouthed at her, 'What is it?'

Kyrie smiled at him and pretended to lean in for a kiss. "Greg," she told him on the softest of whispers.

'Oh' he mouthed back before he took advantage of her close proximity and stole a quick kiss from her lips with a cheeky grin. Renewed indifference then closed down the expression on his face.

Greg looked up from his briefcase as Sherlock lowered his head a little and Kyrie started to study her nails. He gave the both of them a suspicious look.

John coughed to hide his chuckle. "It's obvious, though, isn't it, what happened?" he said, distracting Greg.

"John, you amaze me," Sherlock noted with mild amusement. "You know what happened?"

"Not a clue," he countered. "It's just you normally say that at this point."

Kyrie laughed full out, the sound clean and pure. Sherlock's lips twitched in an amused smile. "Mm-mm," he chuckled. "Well, then..."

He got up from his chair and headed for the door, taking off his dressing gown as he went. "... let's help you solve your little problem, Greg."

Sherlock then briefly disappeared in the direction of their bedroom. John and Greg also stood up and Greg gave John and Kyrie a surprised look.

"You hear that?" he said, as if he couldn't believe his ears.

Kyrie covered up her amused smile with the back of her hand as John beamed at Greg. "I know!"

The men smiled and Greg grinned in the direction of the landing. When they prepared to leave, Kyrie hopped off the armchair and put the plate with few remaining biscuits on the kitchen counter.

"So, how's it going then, fatherhood?" Greg asked curiously as he lead them towards the landing.

"Oh, good, great! Yeah, amazing," John said happily, exaggerating the cheery tone a bit too much.

"Getting any sleep?"

"Hell no!" John deadpanned. "Don't know how we'd cope without Kyrie stepping in every now and again."

Sherlock appeared from the bedroom and was in the process of putting on his jacket. Greg stopped at the top of the stairs and looked back at them.

"You're at the beck and call of a screaming, demanding baby, woken up at all hours to obey his every whim."

Kyrie giggled when Greg looked pointedly over at Sherlock. "Must feel very different," he remarked dryly.

John lowered his head in an attempt to hide his smile as he followed Greg down the stairs.

Sherlock looked from one to the other, his hand stilled from buttoning up his jacket. He squinted at them suspiciously. "I'm sorry, what?" he asked as he followed the other two.

John all but ignored him. "Yes, well, you know how it is. All you do is clean up their mess, pat them on the head."

"Are you two having a little joke?" Sherlock asked stressing the 'k'.

"Never a word of thanks. Can't even tell people's faces apart," John continued as if he hadn't heard Sherlock.

"This is a joke, isn't it?"

"Then it's all, 'Ooh, aren't you clever? You're so, so clever!'" Greg said in a mocking tone.

Sherlock stopped on the bottom step making Kyrie nearly bump into him. He turned around to look at her, a bewildered look on his face. "Is it about me?" he asked.

"I think he needs winding," Greg told John as the latter took his coat from the peg. John smirked at him.

"You know, I think that really might be it."

Sherlock looked confused for a moment, then continued walking to get his coat. "No, don't get it," he muttered as he put it on.

He made sure John and Greg had already left the flat before he hopped back up the last step and suddenly trapped Kyrie against the wall, his hands placed on either side of her.

"Mary coming over with Rosie?" he asked, his gaze fixed on her lips.

Kyrie smiled, letting her own gaze drop to his. "Yes," she said a bit breathlessly.

"Staying over for dinner then, better makes this count," he murmured.

"You better," she whispered right before his lips covered hers.


	89. By the Pricking of My Thumbs

**A/N So, we all know how Kyrie feels about having a baby. But um... How does the man himself feel about that? But before that some light banter between the gang.**

 **Greg and John are Burgundian. They don't feel a need to be polite around Kyrie and they just help themselves, be it to make a huge dent in the food or take several cookies. But, the only one who's allowed to take a handful of cookies... is Sherlock.**

 **Also... I HATE having to write The Lying Detective now. Better title would be 'The Self-loathing Detective'.**

 **Thank you. For all your reviews and for sticking with me and this story. I hope you will like my take on this season. Did I mention I HATE having to write The Self-loathing Detective right now? Because I do. It's horrible!**

SSS

Kyrie watched Mary pacing up and down the kitchen, Rosie on her hip.

"Sorry you offered to come over here instead of tagging along with the boys?" she asked with a wry smile.

"What? No!" Mary huffed, denying the very thought instantly.

"Hm-mm," Kyrie hummed as she tried to figure out what to make for dinner.

"Fine, maybe this case tickles me to the point I do wish I could be there. But, come on! Boy dead for a week, inside his own car, while he should have been in Tibet?"

"Just give John a Skype call," Kyrie suggested.

"Would you mind?" Mary asked her, giving her a guilty but hopeful smile.

"Just do it!"

"You are an angel," Mary gushed and she propped up her phone against a mug on the dinner table. She then opened up the Skype app and started a call.

Kyrie decided she could think of what to get and make for dinner later. Right now she was just curious as Mary so she went to stand next to her friend.

"Hey, hello!" Mary smiled at John the moment he accepted the video call. From the looks and sound of it, the men were walking along a gravelly path.

"Got 'em, don't worry. Pampers; the cream you can't get from Boots," John told her. "Oh, hey Kyrie!"

Kyrie gave him a little wave. Mary was holding Rosie close to her, Miss Rosie not looking too happy with the fact that mummy was a bit distracted. "Yeah, never mind about that. Where are you now? At the dead boy's house?"

"Yeah," John confirmed her guess.

"And what does _he_ think? Any theories?" Mary asked next.

"Uh, well, I texted you the details."

"Yeah," Mary said thoughtfully, "Two different types of vinyl."

There was a little disturbance and the view shifted.

"Hey!" John sputtered indignantly.

Suddenly Kyrie was staring into the frowning face of Sherlock. "How do you know about that?" he demanded.

Kyrie screwed up her mouth and shook her head at him.

"Oh, you'd be amazed at what a receptionist picks up." Mary then leaned closer to the phone and whispered, rather loudly and over-dramatically. "They know _everything_!"

"Solved it, then?" Sherlock asked her, challenging her, his eyes glinting green.

She smiled at him. "I'm working on it."

"Oh, Mary, motherhood's slowing you down," he said, his voice mock wistfully.

"Pig!" Mary shot back.

"Keep trying," he suggested with a smile.

"You keep trying making a Holmes baby! We are one ahead of you!"

"Mary!" Kyrie cried out, feeling her cheeks grow hot. She couldn't help but chuckle however when she noticed Sherlock's cheeks turned slightly pink and he quickly handed the phone back to John.

"Wow, Mary, I think you found a great way to get Sherlock to shut up! Tell him to make babies."

"John!"

Mary laughed at Sherlock's indignant outcry. "So, what about it, then?" she asked, still grinning at her also still grinning husband. "What, an empty car that suddenly has a week-old corpse in it? And what are you gonna call this one?"

"Ooh, the... uh," John stuttered as he now had to think on his feet. "I was thinking, 'The Ghost Driver'," he then said.

"Don't give it a title," Sherlock told him in the background.

"People like the titles."

"I _hate_ the titles."

"Give the people what they want."

Kyrie and Mary smirked at each other when the boys were having one of their discussions again.

"No, never do that. People are stupid," Sherlock said pompously.

Kyrie cleared her throat and Mary squinted her eyes. "Uh, _some_ people," she corrected him.

Sherlock leaned over to look into the camera. " _All_ people are stupid," he argued, then seemed to reach a different conclusion. " _Most_ people." He straightened up again and disappeared from view.

"What's for dinner?" John asked.

Mary looked at Kyrie, an amused look on her face. "Yeah, Kirry, what's for dinner?"

Kyrie pulled on one of Mary's curls 'till she cried out. "I was thinking roasted pepper chili."

"Oh, that sounds..."

Sherlock's head appeared in view. "No!" he said, sounding sternly and he instantly disappeared again.

"Fine!" Kyrie conceded. "Then it will be Mexican rice and a beef and broccoli stir-fry. If you dare to say 'no' again, Sherlock Holmes, you can come up with dinner yourself and cook it while you are at it!"

"He agrees," John said cheerily.

"Sure he does," Mary quipped.

John smiled at them and winked into the camera before he shut off his phone, cancelling the call.

SSS

Sherlock was pacing back and forth in front of his brother's desk in his underground office in the Diogenes Club. He ignored the curious glance Mycroft gave him.

Perhaps he could have handled informing the parents about the demise of their son a bit better. It was just that he had found a far more interesting mystery and compared to that the 'mystery' of the week old corpse in the car was... well... dull! He had only needed a cab ride over to their residence to solve the case.

The poor kid had wanted to surprise his father, hid himself under a loose copy of the vinyl seat cover while pretending to still be in Tibet during the – partially – pre-recorded Skype call.

Getting his father to make a picture of the power ranger on the bonnet was of course a ruse so the boy could spring the surprise on his old man. He never got to spring the surprise though, since he suffered some kind of seizure and died right there and then. Tragic. Yes. Couldn't be helped though. The case was solved.

But this... the broken Thatcher. This was unknown and therefore interesting and therefore worth his time.

" _By the pricking of my thumbs."_ Indeed.

" _Intuitions are not to be ignored, John. They represent data processed too fast for the conscious mind to comprehend."_ That's what he'd told his friend. Intuition... It's why he was here. And... for something else.

"I met her once," Mycroft told him, breaking the silence.

"Thatcher?"

"Rather arrogant, I thought."

" _You_ thought that?!" Sherlock scoffed.

Mycroft chuckled at the irony. "I know."

His smile suddenly dropped and he held up Sherlock's phone. "Why am I looking at this?"

Sherlock stopped pacing and gave his brother a look. "That's _her_. John and Mary's baby."

"Oh, I see," he said, looking more closely at the picture.

Sherlock's eyebrows snapped together when he noticed his brother's fake smile.

"Looks very..." he paused for a moment, struggling to find an appropriate term. "... fully functioning."

Sherlock frowned at him. _Pompous prick_ , he thought. "Is that _really_ the best you can do?"

"Sorry," Mycroft apologised. "I've never been very good with them."

"Babies?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

His brother gave him a smug smile. "Humans."

"Well, better step up your game then," Sherlock retorted. "Kyrie is not going to accept a lacklustre response like that when you... you know..."

Mycroft raised an inquiring eyebrow at this. "No," he said. "I _don't_ know."

Sherlock shot his brother an annoyed and wary look. Leave it to him to make this awkward conversation even more awkward! He gesticulated his hand. "... when-when you... becomeanuncle." The words tumbled from his mouth and for a moment he felt a bit woozy. He looked around him. Was there still oxygen travelling to this room?

Mycroft's eyebrows climbed so high, they nearly lifted from his head. "Excuse me?" he said softly, leaning forward and staring avidly at his brother. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"What?" Sherlock asked bewildered, his eyes widening when he realised just what his brother was thinking. "No!"

"But you..." Mycroft seemed to want to swoon at the thought. "You are entertaining the thought of... parent... hood...?"

Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair. His entire body felt tight as a drum. Wound up too far. Ready to snap. "It's what happens, right?" he said softly. "Or, what's supposed to happen at least, when... you're _married_."

"I wouldn't know," Mycroft said carefully. " _You're_ the expert here. I'm not married."

Sherlock could feel his brother's eyes bore into his back.

"Do you even want to become a father?" Mycroft asked softly. "It's not something that goes away, Sherlock, if you don't like it."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I know that, Mycroft!" he said through gritted teeth. "But, Kyrie will... want one... especially now with Rosie. I-I knew it the moment I saw her holding her. She'll want one of her own."

"And you haven't discussed this yet, with Kyrie?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "No," he said softly. Just the thought made him feel as if he was losing control and he didn't like it one bit. He didn't even want children! At least... that's what he'd always presumed. Just like he'd never wanted to be romantically involved with someone. Just like he'd always known he'd never fall for the marital trap.

And here he was... Married, loved, in love probably... most likely... He closed his eyes. Definitely. Was he seriously contemplating... _that_?

It wasn't as if he had much of a choice. The moment he'd tell Kyrie he absolutely did not want to have children, he knew it would be the moment he'd lose her. And... that was one thing he just couldn't do; he couldn't even bear the thought.

"I have no idea what the hell I'm doing, Mycroft," he admitted softly. "The only thing I know is... is that I want to keep her with me, at all costs. All else seems... insignificant."

"If that is how you really feel, little brother... Then you know what to do. You _could_ let her broach the subject herself of course. No need for you to just... jump in."

Sherlock nodded his head. "If um, such a thing does come to pass... Do you... Will you accept it? Be part of...?"

"Of course," Mycroft said. "I'd be an uncle."

The word made Sherlock feel a tight twinge in his heart. Uncle. If his brother was an uncle... he'd... he'd be a father. The mere thought filled him with dread. But... what about Rosie? He had experience with her... She wasn't _that_ bad. He then pulled up images and memories of Rosie in his mind. Especially the moment Rosie had been placed in Kyrie's arms. His lips curled into a small smile.

He let out a deep breath and stepped forward to take the phone from his brother's limp hand, and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. "Moriarty," he said, his voice cool and collected again. "Did he have any connection with Thatcher? Any interest in her?"

"Why on earth would he?"

Sherlock, still feeling high-strung on a wave of unfamiliar emotions replied a bit tetchily. "I don't know. You tell _me,_ " he bit out, gesturing with his hands.

Mycroft sniffed, leaned forward and opened a folder on his desk.

"In the last year of his life, James Moriarty was involved with four political assassinations, over seventy assorted robberies and terrorist attacks, including a chemical weapons factory in North Korea, and had latterly shown some interest in tracking down the Black Pearl of the Borgias – which is still missing, by the way, in case you feel like applying yourself to something practical."

"It's a _pearl_ ,"Sherlock scoffed with disdain. "Get another one."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

Sherlock looked off the side of the room. "There's something important about this," he said softly, losing himself in thought. I'm sure. Maybe it's Moriarty. Maybe it's not. But _something's_ coming."

"Mycroft frowned and leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. "Are you having a premonition, brother mine?"

Sherlock blinked and looked at his brother. "The world is woven from billions of lives, every strand crossing every other. What we call premonition is just movement of the web. If you could attenuate to every strand of quivering data, the future would be entirely calculable, as inevitable as mathematics."

Mycroft smiled very briefly. "Appointment in Samarra," he said.

"I'm sorry?"

"The merchant who can't outrun Death. You always hated that story as a child. Less keen on predestination back then."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I'm not sure I like it now."

"With possible pending fatherhood? Oh, I totally get that."

He had a mind to punch that smug smile off his brother's face. He jerkily grabbed his coat from the chair in front of the desk and started to put it on.

"You wrote your own version, as I remember. Appointment in _Sumatra_. The merchant goes to a different city and is perfectly fine."

"Goodnight, Mycroft," Sherlock said as he turned towards the door.

"Then he becomes a _pirate_ , for some reason."

Sherlock's hand stilled. Pirate. There was something... something familiar... He shook his head as if to clear it. " _Eurus_..." he heard a faint whisper in his mind.

"Keep me informed," Sherlock asked his brother.

"Of what?"

Sherlock turned and gave him a bit of a dazed look. "Absolutely no idea," he replied and walked out the door.


	90. The Third Thatcher

**A/N Fluff, innuendo, client Mr Kingsley... Sherlock and John preparing to visit 'Toby'.**

 **DreamonAlina Well, this is Sherlock we are talking about. He won't suddenly realise he _wants_ to have children with Kyrie. Baby steps... **

**Thewickedprincess Good catch btw, I corrected the chapter in which I mentioned 'Rosie' before her name was revealed! And yes... I'm changing quite a few things this episode and the next!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 I hope I won't let you down!**

 **Enjoy this chapter!**

SSS

Kyrie was eyeing Sherlock's latest client warily. She did not like the way he'd licked his lips when he first took in her appearance.

She was wearing a simple white dress with a low cut straight back. Over the white dress however, was a black lace overlay accentuating her neckline, her sides and came together at the back with one little button, leaving the rest of her back bare. Sherlock had already given the dress his stamp of approval by giving her admiring looks.

Kyrie hadn't dressed in trousers for a long, long time. Last time was probably... before he faked his death? Huh, that _was_ a really long time! She'd started wearing them because she considered it a professional look for a PA and she had basically just continued wearing them.

For one, Sherlock turned out to be partial to her wearing dresses. Secondly... she loved the classy elegance of a fine dress. She could go without leering, beady little eyes however. Judging the dark look in Sherlock's eyes, he'd noticed the man's wandering eyes as well and he wasn't too thrilled about it.

Outside of the living room, Kyrie heard voices growing louder. She already knew Detective Hopkins was patiently waiting outside. Sherlock had told her in unmistakably clear words she'd just have to wait till he was done with his client. She had actually done so, but it seemed Greg had joined her as well and he made his presence known rather loudly. Sherlock was starting to send more and more agitated glances in the direction of the living room door.

Maybe she should ask them to keep it down a bit? She decided that would be a prudent action, so she got to her feet.

"Mm, better handle this myself. You're too sweet. They'll start yapping loudly again in no time," Sherlock said with a sigh as he hoisted himself to his feet.

He quickly marched over to the door, hurled it open and barked at them, "Will you two _please_ keep it down?" he said, his voice biting. He didn't wait for an answer and slammed the door shut. He turned to Kyrie who was standing right next to him and gave her a smug smile. "See? All done!"

She bit her lip, trying not to laugh out loud. She looked up at him, an admiring look in her eyes. Weird, she always used to have to shield these kind of emotions and now she could just show them... he liked it when she did. And he did look striking with his new midnight blue shirt that she'd gotten him.

He looked down at her, his eyes squinted. "Again?" he asked her in a low voice. "What is it with you and your libido lately? I can hardly keep up!"

Kyrie chortled in amusement. "Maybe you should go back to dressing in baggy pants and sweatshirts then. Maybe, _just_ maybe that _might_ diminish your appeal."

His eyes glittered vibrant green with a bit of smoky amber. "Maybe you should stop buying me shirts you want to peel off of me the moment I wear them," he said quietly.

She grinned at him and went to stand on her toes. "Sweetie, it doesn't matter what shirt you wear, I _always_ want to peel it off the moment you wear it," she whispered in his ear.

Sherlock ducked his head in slight embarrassment. She knew it stroked his ego to know he had that kind of effect on her, but he did not understand his own appeal which often caused him to become a bit flustered.

"And my libido only matches yours. Maybe I should start wearing trousers again?"

He rolled his eyes. "Heavens no!"

When Sherlock's client cleared his throat to get attention, they both turned their heads in his direction.

He sighed and after a quick peck on her cheek, Sherlock walked back over to his chair, right past his client who was sitting on 'the client chair', wearing grey trousers and a pale short-sleeved shirt.

There was a red balloon floating over John's seat. Kyrie knew that John had drawn enquiring eyebrows and an impressed smile on the balloon. She found it hilarious that Sherlock still hadn't noticed John wasn't sitting in his chair.

"Now, you haven't always been in life insurance, have you? You started out in manual labour."

Kyrie smiled when Sherlock raised his hands to cut off his client. "Oh, don't bother being astonished. Your right hand's almost an entire size bigger than your left."

When Sherlock started a thorough deduction about his clients inability to quit smoking and a Japanese girlfriend who used to mean a lot to him but now left him quite indifferent, he kept shooting her knowing little glances. The prick!

He faltered once, when Kyrie crossed her legs, causing her dress to hike up more than usual. Sherlock was looking on with captive interest. She sent him a sweet smile causing him to mock glare at her.

"... so instead you buy individual cigarettes, always sure that each will be your last. Anything to add, John?"

Kyrie's head shot up and she grinned when she just caught Sherlock glancing briefly towards John's chair, before he did a startled double-take. "John?" he asked, utterly surprised, as if John had just magically transformed into a red balloon.

Suddenly John's head peeked round the kitchen door. "Um, yeah, yeah, listening."

John walked into the living room and raised his mug at Kyrie. "This is some seriously good tea! What... what is it?

"Keemun Hao Ya, I thought it would make a nice change from the usual Assam."

"I need some of this, text Mary?"

"Already done!"

"Why am I not surprised?"

Sherlock was eerily quiet. When Kyrie looked at him, she chortled seeing his bewildered wide-eyed stare at the balloon. "What _is_ that?" he finally asked.

"That is... me. Well, it's a me-substitute," John explained.

Sherlock frowned, then briefly glanced at his client. "Don't be so hard on yourself," he chuckled a bit awkwardly.

Aw, he looked all shy and adorable as he flicked brief glances at her and John!

"You know I value your little contributions."

"Yeah? It's been there since nine this morning," John shot back.

"Has it? Where were you?"

"Having Kyrie's awesome tea while helping Mrs H with her Sudoku."

"What about my girlfriend?" the client suddenly asked. Kyrie rolled her eyes at him. Even Sherlock seemed annoyed by the sudden distraction.

"What?" Sherlock asked with a sigh. Kyrie could hear by the tone of his voice he was making a real effort not the chew the man's head off.

"You said I had an ex."

"You've got a Japanese tattoo in the crook of your elbow in the name 'Akako'. It's obvious you've tried to have it removed," he explained in a bored manner.

"But surely that means I wanna forget her, not that I'm indifferent."

"If she'd really hurt your feelings, you would have had the word obliterated, but the first attempt wasn't successful and you haven't tried again." Sherlock started to sound a little bit annoyed now. "So, it seems you can live with the slightly blurred memory of Akako, hence the indifference."

Sherlock's client suddenly burst out laughing. When he realised he was being just a bit rude, he gesticulated his hands in an apologetic manner. "Sorry. I-I thought you'd done something clever."

Kyrie froze hearing his words and she blinked her eyes a couple of time. Had he just indirectly insulted Sherlock? She looked at her husband and took notice of the utterly indignant look that briefly flickered across his chiselled features.

"No, no. Ah, but now you've explained it, it's dead simple, innit?" The client continued, digging his own grave even deeper. He'd get his, she was sure of that. So was John. Even his mouth twitched up into a smile. And she sure as hell didn't feel sorry for the man. She knew there'd been a reason she hadn't even offered him tea.

She slowly got up to start a fresh brew for Sherlock though. He deserved it after dealing with this ingrate.

Sherlock pulled in a long breath, straightened up in his seat as he turned more towards his client, then he breathed out deeply through his nose, keeping his cool composure. "I've withheld this information from you until now, Mr Kingsley, but I think it's time you knew the truth."

Riiiight. Mr _King_ sley. Mr Village Idiot was more fitting.

"What d'you mean?" Mr Kingsley asked.

"Have you ever wondered if your wife was a little bit out of your league?"

"Well..."

Kyrie huffed. _Any_ woman was out of his league. Way out. If his league was to explode, women wouldn't hear the sound of it for another three days or so.

"You thought she was having an affair. I'm afraid it's far worse than that. Your wife is a spy."

Kyrie's head shot up in surprise at the same time Kingsley asked, "What?!"

"That's right. Her real name is Greta Bengtsdotter," Sherlock began and then started explaining about her Swedish heritage and super spy status in such a quick-fire way, Kyrie felt dizzy when he finally stopped for air. Coincidently, he was also done with his... _deduction_.

Something about Greta Bengtsdotter plotting to start World War 3.

Kyrie bit her lip when she finally realised Sherlock was talking out of his arse. She shared a look with John who chuckled silently.

"Are you serious," John asked, rather superfluously.

"No, of course not," Sherlock said as he stood up and walked to towards the door. "His wife left him because his breath stinks and he likes to wear her lingerie."

"I don't!" Kingsley was quick to defend himself. John quirked a look at him, so did Kyrie.

"He's been licking his lips and eyeing Kyrie's lacy neckline from the moment he got in, mistakenly assuming the lace of her neckline was part of her bra," Sherlock explained, just as the client said, "Just the bras."

"There. See?" Sherlock opened the door for his 'client'. "Get out," he barked at him. Kingsley was, thankfully, quick to obey. He swiftly high-tailed out of the living room, walking between the waiting inspectors. Sherlock instantly pushed the door shut again, without a second glance at the two people waiting.

"Sherlock, what the hell was all this about?" Kyrie asked carefully.

"Just having a bit of fun," Sherlock answered with a shrug.

"Fun?" John parroted him.

Sherlock nodded. "While I can."

"Mm-hm."

"Right," Kyrie said, "I'm gonna make new tea. Sherlock?"

"Milky oolong, please."

"You sure you don't want to try..."

He shook his head. "The oolong would be splendid."

Kyrie nodded and walked over to the kitchen counter to put the kettle on.

At the same time there was a knock on the door. Hopkins opened it and walked in.

"Uh, Sherlock..." she started, but Sherlock didn't even give her a chance to bring her case to him.

"Borgia Pearl, boring, go," he said brusquely, turned her around and pushed her towards the landing.

"Uh, but, uh..." the woman spluttered.

"Go!" Sherlock barked, eliciting a bubbly laugh from Kyrie as she scooped the loose tea leaves in the pot.

Sherlock pushed the door shut, but instantly the door opened again and someone came in. A look over her shoulder and Kyrie noticed Greg standing there.

"Hello Greg!" she greeted him cheerily.

"Morning, Kyrie. Is my nose deceiving me, or are you making tea?" he asked hopefully.

"Making tea, Greg. Want a cuppa?"

He grinned at her. "Yes, please."

"Oh, this had better be good," Sherlock moaned none too happy.

"Oh, I think you'll like it." Greg produced a clear plastic bag from the paper bag he was holding, and held it up for Sherlock to see. Kyrie had just poured the hot water in the pot and took a few steps towards them to have a closer look. Inside were shattered pieces of white plaster. Seemed to be pieces of a bust?

Sherlock took hold of the bottom of the bag and looked at it closely. Judging the look in his eyes, he knew exactly what the shattered pieces meant.

"That is the bust, isn't it? The one that was broken," John said.

"No, it isn't," Greg said. "It's another one; different owner, different part of town. You were right, Sherlock! This is a... this is a thing. Something's going on."

Sherlock looked at the bag, his gaze gaining a very intense quality. Kyrie smiled wanly. She loved that look. It meant he had found something to challenge his mind with.

She was less thrilled with the all-consuming madness and outfall that usually came after it. Ah well. Such was life with Sherlock. You took the bad with the good.

"What's wrong? I thought you'd be pleased," Greg asked, looking at Sherlock.

"I _am_ pleased," Sherlock muttered softly.

"You don't _look_ pleased." Greg persisted.

Kyrie rubbed Sherlock's arm affectionately as he still peered at the bag. "Ah Greg, it's his game face!"

Sherlock raised his eyes at her, a slight smile forming on his lips. "Quite right, my dear," he agreed. "And the game is on." With those words he turned away and went to the kitchen.

Shortly afterwards he had is microscope perched on the kitchen table and was busy examining pieced of the broken plaster. John and Greg were standing nearby, each with a mug of tea in their hands. Kyrie scowled a bit when she noticed Sherlock's tea was still standing near the microscope untouched.

"Another two have been smashed since the Welsborough one. One belonging to Mr Mohandes Hassan..."

"Identical busts?" John interjected.

"Yeah, and this one to a Doctor Barnicot in Holborn. Three in total." Greg looked at his watch. "God knows who'd wanna do something like this."

"Yeah, well some people have that complex, don't they... an idée fixe." John walked closer to the table and gave Sherlock a pointed look. "They obsess over one thing and they can't let it go."

Kyrie, was standing behind Sherlock, gently combing her fingers through his curls. The faint smell of his shampoo drifted up to her nose and she repressed the urge to bury her face in his locks to deeply inhale the scent.

He'd complained a while back about his then-shampoo making his scalp feel tight and itchy.

So, Kyrie had set out on a quest for a milder one. She gravitated to shampoos made of as much natural ingredients as possible and, instead of giving him the new shampoos, she would just place the new bottles in the bath room.

Sherlock was just as circumspect in letting Kyrie know if he liked the new stuff or not. If not, it would end up in the trash bin. If he ran out of shampoo he liked, he perched the bottle on the kitchen table so Kyrie would find it.

At some point she found a herbal shampoo made with organic rhodiola rosea, wild ginseng and tiger grass that he could tolerate well and made his hair look damn good! Plus, it smelled heavenly on him! It was now the only shampoo he'd touch.

Sherlock was too busy looking into the microscope to notice, or care about Kyrie obsessing over his hair again. "No, no good," he said in reply to John's comment. "There were other images of Margaret..." He paused and raised his head. "Margaret?" he asked questioningly.

Kyrie grinned. She couldn't resist and raked her hand through his curls again, this time earning her an annoyed swat of his hand to leave his 'do' alone.

John sighed exasperated. "You know who she is."

"Anyhow... there were other images of Margaret Thatcher present at the first break-in. Why would a monomaniac fixate on just one?"

He picked up another piece of plaster with tweezers and seemed to find that particular piece instantly interesting.

"Ooh!" Sherlock exclaimed excitedly.

"What?" Kyrie asked and she leaned over his shoulder to have a better look.

Sherlock sniffed a bit. "Hmm, you've taken a real liking to that Iris fragrance. I have to admit, it does suit you well. My brother doesn't have horrible taste then in women's fragrances then."

"It's _my_ taste, Sherlock. Iris des Champs was on my little wish list, remember?"

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed a bit and showed her the piece of plaster. "Blood."

Before she could take a good look, he put the plaster under the microscope and looked at it through the lenses. "Quite a bit of it, too,"

He leaned back and gestured at the microscope. Kyrie shuffled closer so she could peer through it.

"Was there any injury at the crime scene?" Sherlock asked Greg.

"Nah," he said, then fell silent. When Kyrie looked up she caught him glancing at his watch again.

"Then our suspect must have cut themselves breaking the bust. Come on," Sherlock said and he used the tweezers to put the blood-stained piece of plaster into a small plastic bag.

"Holborn?" Greg guessed.

"Lambeth," Sherlock corrected him.

"Lambeth? Why?" Greg sounded rather surprised.

"To see Toby."

Kyrie grinned. He would take any excuse to see his 'big pall' Toby. The greatest mind in his own field, according to Sherlock.

"Ah, right," John said, then looked puzzled. "Who?"

Sherlock gave him a sly little smile. "You'll see."

"Right." He turned to look at Greg. "You coming?"

No, Sherlock said as he tossed the tweezers back on the kitchen table and proceeded to close the zip of the plastic bag. "He's got a lunch date with a _brunette_ forensic officer that he doesn't want to be late for."

He got up and put on his jacket.

"Who told you?" Greg asked dumbfounded.

Kyrie chuckled. "I think _you_ just did. Probably a stain on your jacket, or a different deodorant you are wearing, or..."

"Actually, it was the right sleeve of his jacket..." Sherlock said with a sigh, interrupting Kyrie. "... plus the formaldehyde mixed with your cologne..." He scrunched up his face in disgust while John leaned over to put his face nearer to Greg's jacket.

Kyrie couldn't suppress a grin when John peered at the sleeve and tried to sniff inconspicuously as Sherlock continued his explanation. "... and your _complete_ inability to stop looking at your watch. Have a good time."

"I will," Greg assured him and he headed for the kitchen door onto the landing.

Sherlock straightened the collar of his jacket and immediately went for his phone that previously laid discarded on the kitchen table. He picked it up and started typing while giving Greg his thoughts on his date at hand.

"Trust me, though, she's not right for you," he said a bit offhandedly.

Greg stopped and turned back to look at him. "What?"

"She's not the one," Sherlock repeated himself, raising his voice a bit. Kyrie giggled at Sherlock's misinterpretation of Greg's 'What?'

"Well, thank you, Mystic Meg," Greg said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He shook his head and left.

John stepped a bit closer to Sherlock. "How'd you work all that out?" he asked.

Sherlock only briefly looked up from his phone, still typing, as he replied, "She's got three children in Rio that he doesn't know about."

"Are you just making this up?" John asked him suspiciously.

"Possibly." Sherlock flashed him a cheeky grin before giving him a pointed look. John got the drift and went out of the kitchen door, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock turned to look at Kyrie. "I asked Mary to join us on this one. Could really use her skill-set today. You okay with babysitting Rosie?"

Though Kyrie felt a slight twinge that she herself had not much else to offer, she couldn't exactly fault Sherlock for wanting those around who could actually contribute something. It didn't make her feel less disappointed, but Sherlock making sure she was okay with the arrangement this time around, lifted her spirits a bit. Because this time he asked and didn't just up and leave her behind.

"Of course," she assured him.

Sherlock gave her a delighted smile and pulled her in for a kiss that was full of promise and left her quite breathless.


	91. The Learning Curve

**A/N I know, so much fluff these last few chapters. I thought they deserved a bit of fluff after the emotional roller coaster that was Abominable Bride and the even worse emotional roller coaster that is still to come. I tried to put as much fluff in as possible. The quiet before the storm so to speak.**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Aw, you made me blush! I still feel a bit anxious though. But, too late to turn back now! I'm about 1/4th into the next episode. Glad you liked the chapter. I actually borrowed that line from the Librarian movie. Always wanted to use it :-)**

 **DreamonAlina Haha the bunch of dorks! I love it! And yeah, I love them too. That particular shirt will come back and haunt you though. Enjoy the calm. Thinks are about to get real!**

 **TheWickedPrincess Oh thank you! That's a really sweet compliment. I do always try to find a good mesh between script and my story.**

 **Anyway, here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy!**

SSS

Sherlock could still taste Kyrie on his tongue and his lips were still tingling when he caught up with John just outside of the flat.

"Had a good snog?" John asked him dryly after one look at his face.

Sherlock twitched his lips in a smile. "Do you want me to fill you in or would you rather discuss my love life?"

"Well," John started, but stopped when Sherlock gave him an annoyed look. Why John was so immensely interested in Sherlock's personal relationship with Kyrie was beyond him.

"Who's Toby?" John smartly decided to change the subject.

Sherlock managed to hail them a taxi and he instantly clamoured inside when the taxi pulled over. He quickly gave the cabbie the address.

"There's a kid I know, hacker, _brilliant_ hacker, one of the world's best," Sherlock told John on their way to their destination. "He got himself into serious trouble with the Americans a couple of years ago. He hacked into the Pentagon's security system, and I managed to get him off the charge. Therefore he owes me a favour."

When they arrived at the quaint little house, Sherlock reached for the black weathered knocker on a black-painted door and knocked twice before stepping back onto the pavement.

"So, how does that help us?" John asked him.

As Sherlock's mind had already raced miles ahead, he wasn't entirely sure what John was getting at.

"What?" he asked, a bit perplexed.

"Toby the hacker," John elaborated.

What kind of nonsense was John spouting now? When had Sherlock even said Toby was the hacker?

"Toby's not the hacker."

"What?"

This time it was John who sounded perplexed but Sherlock paid it little notion because someone just opened the door. He smiled at the young, bespectacled and stout man. His hair, as always, an unruly mess of little curls. "All right, Craig?" Sherlock greeted him with an easy smile.

Craig smiled right back at him. "All right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock then looked down and couldn't keep the delight from his voice. "Craig's got a dog!"

"So I see," John said, sounding a bit hesitant at the sight of the large bloodhound.

Toby, lead already attached to his harness, lumbered out onto the pavement and Sherlock squatted down on the ground, chuckling elated at as Toby came over to greet him. "Good boy!"

"Hiya!"

Sherlock grinned hearing the familiar voice while rubbing Toby behind his ears. He might have neglected to tell John he'd invited Mary to join them on this one.

"Mary, what are you...?" John spluttered. "No, we- we agreed we would never bring Rosie out on a case."

Sherlock's head snapped up. Rosie? When he looked up at Mary, sure enough, she was holding Rosie in her arms.

"No, exactly, so...," Mary stepped out of the house and handed the baby to John. "... it's your turn."

Craig gave them a silent little wave and closed the door on them and Mary looked across to him to give him an apologetic smile. "Hey, Sherlock."

"Hey," he said, his mind trying to come up with an explanation for why Mary had Rosie with her. "I thought you'd drop of Rosie with Kyrie first?"

"Yeah, we need to talk about that," Mary said.

Sherlock raised himself up again and adjusted the straps on Toby's harness. "About what?" he then asked, transferring the loop of the lead to his hand.

Mary worried her lip. "Look, you know how much I enjoy joining you guys on your mad little trips. But..."

Sherlock's eyes widened. He really didn't like the sound of this! "But what?"

"We need to stop taking advantage of Kirry, because that _is_ what we are doing. What we _have_ been doing for a long time now."

He was silent. He didn't understand how Mary could even think they were taking advantage of his wife. He would never stand for such a thing! Right? One look at John told Sherlock though that he did understand what Mary was getting at as he looked rather ashamed. Sherlock furrowed his brows.

"Sherlock, you know both Kirry and I fully support you and John taking on cases, dashing all over England. John and I live precariously through you and I allowed myself to become part of the madness too because..." she smiled with elation. "... it is _so_ thrilling and exciting and... It makes me feel _so_ alive!"

"That's a good thing, though, right?" Sherlock asked, unsure of what direction Mary was going with this.

"Yeah, it is," she agreed.

He ventured a small smile again.

"What's not a good thing however..."

His smile dropped.

"... is how easy it has become for us to just drop Rosie with Kyrie while we three go gallivanting. Taking advantage of her... And we've done that before Rosie was even born."

Mary gave John a pointed look as he shuffled with his feet.

"At first coming over to talk about clients was just a way to make sure you and John could keep doing cases together. And then we got invited over dinner and... it was so nice, you know, not having to speed home and taking care of dinner myself. Especially when I was always sore, and tired, and grumpy and nauseous..."

"Mary's right," John quietly piped in. "Though we appreciate how many times we could just... join you guys for dinner... Four times a week, Sherlock. We did it _four_ times a week."

Sherlock looked from one to the other. He chuckled nervously. "But she loved it, you know how she is... Kyrie didn't mind."

"I'm sure she didn't," Mary said. "Back then, I did my little bits... kept her company. And trust me, we had a blast without you guys. But lately, Sherlock, you've invited me to join you two. I understand why you did it and I think it's very sweet of you, to offer me a chance to get out of the 'boring' domestic life a bit... But..."

John nodded his head and looked up at the sky. "She just stays home, Sherlock," he said. "While we go out and have all the fun, _she_ stays behind. Even looks after _our_ baby."

Sherlock's mouth formed a quiet 'oh' in sudden understanding. In his attempt to make Mary feel included, he was excluding his own wife. And he never saw it because Kyrie never complained.

"You know how she is," Mary said softly. "Her biggest asset, that giant heart of hers, is also her biggest flaw. Because she'll never say 'no' to us. She's always looking after us, so, since she won't do it herself... We have to start looking after her for a change."

"So, no more cases... the three of us?" Sherlock asked.

Mary nodded her head. "Not the three of us, no. Not all the time at least. And Sherlock... invite her with you some time. Okay? Let her have a little taste of the thrill and excitement that comes with being on a case with Sherlock Holmes. Just... pick an easy one."

"From now on, either me or Mary will go on a case with you," John said, his voice decisive. "And we have to stop hanging out just for cases. We are friends, are we not? We can do other stuff too. Something that we can share with Kyrie."

Sherlock nodded his head. "I'm-I'm sorry," he said after a long pause. "I never really thought about it that way. Never considered that what we were doing was..."

"Selfish?" Mary finished for him. "That's because you never stop and allow yourself to really think, Sherlock. You're always racing miles and miles ahead and sometimes... that makes you forget you are no longer in this alone. It's no longer just 'you', it's 'we', it's us... and that includes Kyrie."

Now that he understood... He felt pretty awful. He really was a rubbish husband. Something he managed to prove time and time again. Every time when he was confronted with his own inability to be a worthy and dependable spouse to his wife, he'd promise himself he'd do and be better next time. Until he fucked up again.

"So, I have to decide which of you two joins me now?" Sherlock asked, forcing himself to abandon such gloomy thoughts. He never claimed he was good at this relationship stuff, but he was trying. Thank God Kyrie was a patient saint with him and also... His friends setting him straight every now and again... that was good too.

John and Mary both nodded their heads.

"Mary, would you like to join me on this one?" Sherlock asked.

John frowned at that. "Why Mary?" He wanted to know.

"She's better at this than you," Sherlock tried to explain.

"Better?"

Mary's lips curved into a fond smile.

"Yes."

"Hang on. Mary's better than me?" Oh, he sounded just a bit insulted there. Maybe he'd managed to hit a sore spot of John's this time around?

"Well, she _is_ a retired super-agent with a terrifying skill set. Of _course_ she's better."

"Yeah, okay."

Definitely a sore spot.

"Nothing personal," Sherlock assured him.

"What, so I'm supposed to just go home now, am I?" John huffed.

"Oh, what do you think, Sherlock? Shall we take him with us? Just this once?"

"John or the dog?" Sherlock grinned at Mary.

"Ha-ha, that's funny," John said, looking from one to the other.

"John," Mary said with a mischievous smirk.

Sherlock pretended to mull it over. "Well..."

"He's handy and loyal," Mary then said, trying to make a case for her husband.

"That's hilarious," John said, turning to his wife.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed. He could just feel a ridiculously large grin nearly splitting his face in half. He could feel himself nearly bursting with... joy? Happiness? That elated feeling, he noticed he'd started feeling more of that lately. It was strange but also rather pleasant. Those feelings somehow cemented his own sense of belonging.

" _Caring is not an advantage."_ His brother had so often reminded him and he used to believe that to. Now he was no longer so sure. Yes, caring could bring with it feelings of loss and pain and all the confusing and conflicting emotions he really could do very well without. But, caring also brought with it a warmth and... and... _good_ feelings he didn't want to go away, feelings he wanted to experience more of.

"Is it too early for a divorce?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head and categorised his thoughts and feelings neatly in place. Case first, feelings and all that came with it later.

"Aww!" Mary cooed and smiled, pointing to herself with a face that said, _'What, you really want to divorce me?'_

"Barnicot's house, then. Anyone up for a trudge?" he asked, before turning around to walk away with Toby. Toby barked enthusiastically and followed him with a happy trot until Sherlock suddenly stopped and turned around.

"This new arrangement," he said carefully. "I agree completely. Just... one condition. Whenever I have to pick, I don't want my motives to be questioned and I don't want it to come between you. If it ever does..." he smiled. "What can I say? I am lost without my Boswell."

"Of course," Mary and John agreed in unison, both smiling fondly at his words.

"Very well. Let's go then. Keep up. He's fast."

And he was fast. For roughly the first block. Then, Toby sat himself down on the pavement near a phone box. Mary stood behind him holding his lead, her feet on either side of his backside.

John had Rosie strapped in front of him in a baby carrier and Sherlock stood next to him, his hands stuffed into the top pockets of his coat.

Okay, this was slightly embarrassing. The big pooch hadn't moved for quite some time now. Sherlock tried to ignore Mary's pursed lips and John frowning and glaring down at Toby. Something that became that much harder to do with each passing minute of... waiting.

"He's not moving," John said.

"He's thinking," Sherlock replied instantly.

Mary idly scratched the top of Toby's head with her fingers. Toby whined a bit. John looked down at him again, as if he wanted to find any proof that Toby was 'thinking'.

"He's not thinking, Sherlock. He's just not moving."

"He's in his Dog... Mind... House."

Mary laughed, a short hearty guffaw. "Really, Sherlock? 'His Dog Mind House'?"

"Well, who knows what it looks like for him? Could be a cosy kennel. Could be a nice pasture or meadow."

"He's not a cow."

"Maybe he likes to count sheep."

"Oh Lord," John sighed. "Sherlock, he's _really_ not moving."

"Slow but sure, John. Not dissimilar to yourself actually."

John frowned and looked down at Toby again.

"You just like this dog, don't you?"

Of course he did! Dogs were bloody awesome!

"Well, I like _you_."

Mary gave him a tired and wary look. "He's still not moving. I really should have just stayed home with Rosie. Hang out with Kirry. Have tea and cookies with her. Laughing at you guys..." she muttered.

Sherlock ignored her comment and looked down at Toby for several seconds. He actually _was_ convinced that Toby too had the ability to immerse himself in something akin to a dog variant of a mind palace.

"Fascinating," he said.

Mary let out an exasperated sigh and cleared her throat.

After several more minutes of waiting, Toby finally seemed to get inspired and got to moving. Before long, the big mutt lolloped along the road, following his infallible nose.

Too bad his infallible nose got distracted by a lot of different things along the way, causing him to lead them criss-cross through London, his nose down to the road.

As they ran past a church, Sherlock asked for some input. "Well? What do you make of it?" he asked the other two curiously.

"They were looking for something," Mary concluded.

"Yes, but it wasn't a burglar. They came specifically for that Thatcher bust. Why?"

Neither Mary or John could supply him with an answer. They continued on and Sherlock smiled as he looked at Rosie. She hadn't made one little peep during their chase through London, not even as she bounced up in the baby carrier, the bunny ears of her onesie flopping about. Well, well, it seemed that John and Mary weren't the only Watsons with a taste for excitement!

They reached the Southwark area of London, headed into Borough Market and walked past the stalls until Toby finally ran out of steam and just... stopped. Sherlock looked down at the large pool of blood that was on the ground, sawdust thrown in to soak up most of it.

Nearby, butchers carried pig's carcasses over their shoulders towards the Rhug Farm stall for processing. A street sweeper was busy brushing the soaked sawdust into a heap, ready for clean up. Toby whined mournfully and Sherlock looked at the bloody sawdust.

"Clever," he remarked.

"Well, if you were wounded and you knew you were leaving a trail," Mary said thoughtfully. "Where _would_ you go?"

"Like hiding a tree in a forest," John offered.

"Or blood in a butchers'," Sherlock sighed. He went round so he could squat in front of Toby. He affectionately scratched him behind his ears. "Never mind, Toby. I'd get confused as well. Better luck next time, hm?"

He looked around the market. "This is it, though. This is the one." He raised himself to his feet and dropped his voice with his next words, "I can feel it."

"Not Moriarty?" John asked surprised.

"It _has_ to be him. It's too bizarre; it's too baroque." Sherlock continued to look around the area as he felt the thrills of the game tug at him. "It's designed to beguile me, tease me, lure me in. At _last_ – a noose for me to put my neck into."

"Um, Sherlock?"

He turned around and was surprised to find Mary glaring at him. "What?"

"Please, stop saying things like that. I get it, you look forward to a game and especially this one has got you tingling with excitement. But, you can no longer just rush off and face danger head on. Your life is no longer your own."

He gave her a puzzled look. Of course his life was his own! Would he not die if _he_ decided to end it by a bullet, drugs, or a knife?

When Mary gave him an exasperated look, he realised he had voiced his thoughts aloud.

"Let's put it this way... If Kyrie decided she'd had enough and she jumped off the roof of Bart's, how would that make _you_ feel?"

Sherlock chuckled. "She'd never..."

"For the sake of argument, Sherlock!" Mary said, raising her voice considerably. "If she would, how would that make you feel? That's what I mean. Your life is no longer your own. If you force ahead and get yourself killed, it won't matter for _you_ because you will be dead, but you'd leave behind a wife and friends. Devastated. Again."

Kyrie lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to a big machines, several tubes entering her body in various places... In his throes of passion, when he'd dig his fingers in the flesh of her thigh, he always grabbed at that tiny little scar that reminded him of how close he'd come to losing her forever.

"So, basically, think before acting, make sure I've got back up – always, call the police ahead of time and stop talking about sticking my head into a noose?" Sherlock gave them a questioning look.

John nodded. "That would be a good start, yeah."

Sherlock bowed his head a bit, contemplating the thought. "I'll, um... keep it in mind. You guys go home...," Sherlock said gesturing between them. "Be with each other, be with Rosie. I'm gonna walk Toby back home."

Mary handed over the leash and after a quick wave and goodbye, Sherlock started his way back to Craig's house.


	92. The Sixth Thatcher

**A/N Confrontation with Ajay, little bit of fluff too. I'm throwing in all the fluff while I still can!**

 **TheWickedPrinces Yep you are completely right. Kyrie and dogs, two things Sherlock finds awesome!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Thank you! That one was all me! Glad to know I have the ability to make you spit tea myself as wel ;-)**

 **Applepie59 Thank you, daughter mine! But, like we agreed... better stick to your Danny Phantom fandom. Sneaky twerp!**

 **Elbafo So glad you are back! Answered your questions via PM ;-)**

 **DreamonAlina Because I'm evil, I already know what's going to happen and I just LOVE to tease you guys with it :D**

 **Enjoy this chapter! Let me know what you think. I'd really appreciate it!**

SSS

Craig was sitting at his computer, typing away, while Sherlock stood behind him, typing a message to Kyrie on his phone.

\- Staying back at Craig's  
Just in case you were wondering. S

"Have you heard of that thing, in Germany?" Craig asked him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. As if he knew about every little thing that was going on in the world! "You're going to have to be more specific, Craig," he said a bit miffed.

"'Ostalgie.' People who miss the old days under the Communists. People are weird, aren't they?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes momentarily. _He_ was one for talking. Sherlock just hummed a bit in response.

"According to this, there's quite a market for Cold War memorabilia. Thatcher, Reagan, Stalin... Time's a great leveller, innit? Thatcher's like, I dunno, Napoleon now."

He rolled his eyes. He just wanted some information. _Specific_ information. Not all this blabbering! His phone then chimed that he had received a text. He quickly checked it.

\- Say 'Hello' to Craig for me  
See you when I see you. K

"Yes, fascinating, irrelevant. Where exactly did they come from?" Sherlock said in his quick fire way. "Kyrie says 'Hi' by the way."

"Oh, tell her 'hi' back for me. Um, I've got into the records of the suppliers, Gelder & Co. Seems they're from Georgia."

"Where exactly?"

"Uh, Tbilisi. Batch of six."

Sherlock straightened up. Batch of six. Limited edition. Someone was specifically targeting those six busts. He could think of only one reason... Someone had hidden something inside one of them!

"One to Welsborough, one to Hassan, one to Doctor Barnicot... _Two_ to Miss Orrie Harker..."

Sherlock's phone started to ring and he reached into his coat to get it.

"... one to a Mr Jack Sandeford of Reading."

"Lestrade, another one?" Sherlock said the moment he answered the call.

"Yeah," Lestrade answered him, sounding tired.

"Harker or Sandeford?"

There was a long pause. Sherlock rolled his eyes. No doubt Lestrade was twisting his brain into a concussion to try and figure out how the hell he knew. Lestrade really should know by now... He was just _that_ good.

"Harker," Lestrade finally replied. "And it's murder this time."

"Hmm, that perks things up a bit," Sherlock said, his lips briefly curling up into a smile. He turned to leave, a quick wave of his hand his only way of saying goodbye.

It didn't take him long at all to get himself a taxi. He was soon seated in the back of one, performing a search on his phone typing the words 'BLACK PEARL MYSTERY'. He had some time to kill until he reached Orrie Harker's residence and he had an idea. He quickly read through the various various snippets of information that was made available to him. The moment he read there were no new suspects in the case, a smile formed on his lips.

Not long after, Lestrade and Sherlock walked across Orrie Harker's back garden to where her body was lying face down on the grass. Forensic investigators were already at the scene taking photographs.

"Defensive wounds on her face and hands. Throat cut, sharp blade," Lestrade pointed out to him.

"The same thing inside the house? The bust?" Sherlock steered the conversation into the direction that was of interest to him. The body, as it turned out, perked things up less than he'd hoped.

"Two of them this time."

"Interesting. That batch of statues was made in Tbilisi several years ago, limited edition of six," Sherlock told Lestrade.

"And now someone's wandering about destroying 'em all. Makes no sense. What's the point?"

He shook his head at Lestrade. "No, they're not destroying them. That's not what's happening."

"Yes it is," Lestrade insisted.

"Well, it _is_ what's happening, but it's not the point. I've been slow; far too slow."

"Well, I'm _still_ being slow over here, so if you wouldn't mind..."

Sherlock smiled. Good old Lestrade, never too abashed to admit he did not understand, or to ask for clarification.

"Slow but lucky. _Very_ lucky. And since they smashed both busts, our luck might just hold. Jack Sandeford of Reading is where I'm going next. Congratulations, by the way."

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, you're about to solve a big one. Only one bust left." He turned and walked away.

"Yeah, until John publishes his blog," Lestrade shot back.

Sherlock smirked and looked back over his shoulder. "Yeah. 'Til then, basically."

He took out his phone, paused for a moment, then sent Kyrie a message.

\- About to solve a big case. Wanna join me? S

After another moments thought, he added something.

\- Could be dangerous.

He smiled when he received her answer.

\- Address?

Sherlock quickly texted her the instructions and the time to meet him there. This time it would just be him and her. No John. No Mary. Just them. Even though he knew the situation was likely to get hairy, he noticed his heart beating just that much faster at the prospect. He looked ahead of him, staring off into the distance for a brief moment. Then walked on to find himself a taxi once again.

SSS

Sherlock and Kyrie were hiding behind a support column in the indoor swimming pool of the Sandeford home. They were silently watching as the young daughter of Jack Sandeford made laps in the pool. One time when she swam past them, she couldn't resist a little wave in their direction, then continued swimming and all but ignored them.

For all they knew, the person they were after was watching them right now; it was vital that Jack and his little girl went through their usual routines without rising suspicion. Lestrade was standing by with back up several blocks away, waiting for Kyrie's signal. Jack and his daughter were to go upstairs under the strict orders to ignore any sounds of disturbance coming from downstairs. They were to leave everything in the hands of Sherlock and the police.

Jack casually wandered in through the open door, though Kyrie noticed by the rigid set of his shoulders that the man was properly nervous. So was she.

"That's enough now, love," Jack called out to his daughter, Kimmy. He walked over to where there was a small jacuzzi set into the corner of the main pool. On either side of it, there were two polished stainless steel pool waterfalls fountaining clear sheets of water into the main pool.

Jack leaned down and passed his hand over a photoelectric sensor, making the water stop. "Daddy has things to do, I'm afraid," he told Kimmy. Kimmy was already near the ladder at the side of the pool and started to climb it. He walked over to meet her, carrying a large fluffy towel in his hands.

"And you need to get to bed! Come on!"

Kimmy got out of the water and Jack wrapped the towel around her. When Jack walked past them, he gave Kyrie and Sherlock a nearly imperceptible nod. He walked out of the pool room with his daughter and Jack closed the door, swiping his hand over another sensor on the wall. The lights in that room go out, but the lights in the pool room remained on.

As they walked away, Sherlock briefly left their hiding spot, standing at the window and watching them leave. After a moment he took off his greatcoat and his new scarf and hung it on one of the towel hooks near the door, along with one of Kyrie's new coats and stepped back into their hiding spot.

"Now the waiting game begins..." he said softly, looking her up and down. "... shortcake."

Kyrie arched a brow at him. She was wearing comfy jeans for the occasion and a pair of sneakers in lieu of her leather boots which, though certainly not high heeled, weren't exactly flat either.

"I'm just a bit shorter than Mary," she groused.

"Who's a bit shorter than John, making you... my little shortcake," he said, his lips near her ear while his hands wandered over her tightly clad thighs and buttocks, giving her a bit of a squeeze there. Kyrie gasped quietly when he pulled the loop of the emerald scarf she was still wearing a bit looser and started kissing her neck.

"What are you doing?" she asked quietly.

She could feel his lips curve in a smile against her skin. "Kissing my wife," he said with a soft chuckle.

Kyrie bit her lip to keep from laughing. "You are doing throwbacks now?"

"And don't stop me this time round. Really no need."

"Seriously Sherlock? Snogging while waiting for the perpetrator to show up?"

He pulled back just a little. "Consider this a thorough prep for my mental acuity," he said, before covering her lips with his.

Kyrie smiled when Sherlock allowed his body 'control of the wheel' so to speak. Who knew what things he now engaged his mind in? There was a very big difference between Sherlock kissing her in desire and Sherlock kissing her to stimulate his mind. Though the latter was still very pleasurable for her because his body was very skilled in going through the motions, it did not arouse him, well... it kind of did, but... differently.

"Will you still notice when, you know, shows up?" Kyrie asked a bit breathlessly.

"Shh," he told her, nibbling on her bottom lip. "Senses heightened, I notice everything. Did you know the PH value of your skin changes when you're aroused? I can smell the difference."

Kyrie rolled her eyes. "Something I've always wanted to know."

He stopped his romantic assault as abruptly as he'd started it and seemed to listen closely to something. He shook his head and planted a feathery light kiss on her lips. "Sorry, I'll make it up to you later," he whispered.

Kyrie lightly patted his chest with a smile. She knew he was referring to her being aroused while he wasn't. Her desire would fade and he always made it up to her. They remained hidden in their spot for a long time, until Sherlock's head shot up. He put his index finger against his lips in a silent gesture for her to remain quiet.

He leaned over and whispered in her ear. "Text Lestrade it's time. Remember, don't interfere; don't distract me. I don't want to have to worry about you. All I have to do is stall and get the truth out of them till back up arrives."

Kyrie nodded and quickly sent Greg a text to move in and watched as Sherlock quietly walked into the room adjoining the pool room. She ventured a brief glance and could vaguely make out the contours of someone in the room, carrying a large bag. The person walked across to the Thatcher bust, picked it up and started to stuff it into the bag when suddenly the lights came on.

Kyrie made sure to remain hidden from view, but couldn't resist peeking her head around the column. Her heart started beating faster when she witnessed, first hand, Sherlock confronting a criminal.

Sherlock quietly walked up behind the intruder, who had the hood of their jacket pulled over their head, a balaclava helmet concealing their face. Looked like a man.

"Wouldn't it be much simpler to take out your grievances at the polling station?" Sherlock quipped.

The intruder wasted no time and whipped around, suddenly pointing a pistol at Sherlock. He instantly slapped the gun out of his hand though in a surprisingly effortless and reflexive move.

Kyrie's first instinct was to cry out and jump on the intruder to help Sherlock, but she remembered her promise... She didn't want to do anything that might distract Sherlock and give the intruder a chance to gain the upper hand.

The intruder swung his bag up towards Sherlock's head, but he managed to grab it and threw it out of reach before smacking the other person across the face with a back-hand as he swung back his arms. Sherlock got hit in the face with a vicious elbow jab and Kyrie couldn't help but flinch as she watched the two of them trading blows and kicks.

Kyrie gained a whole new level of respect for her husband. The intruder was clearly a trained professional and Sherlock still managed to stand his ground. Had he picked up these skills during his time abroad, dismantling Moriarty's network?

The man hurled a bar stool at Sherlock but he managed to step back and twist his body out of the way. He instantly surged back in and grappled with the man, who headbutted him in response and then grabbed the back of Sherlock's head and slammed his face down onto what looked to be a breadboard on the bar, several times.

Kyrie couldn't stand back and watch Sherlock getting his arse handed over to him.

She moved out from her hiding spot to jump on the man, but Sherlock managed to free himself with a vicious punch to the man's gut. The man lost his footing for a moment and Sherlock sprang back into action, punching him again and then grabbing the balaclava, pulling it off in one fluent motion.

The man stumbled back, a look of utter surprise on his face.

"You were on the run; nowhere to hide your precious cargo," Sherlock said, breathing heavily, his curls an unruly mess. He kicked at the man's knee, but to his credit he did not stumble. Instead, he retaliated with a high kick that Sherlock managed to evade.

As the two men circled each other, Kyrie noticed the blood running from Sherlock's nose and she grimaced. The feverish hue in his eyes told her to keep out of this, no matter how much she would have loved to surprise his attacker and jump on him.

"You find yourself in a workshop. Plaster busts of The Iron Lady drying. It's clever, very clever. But now you've met me, and you're not so clever, are you?"

"Who are you?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock told him, with a look that seemed to expect immediate recognition.

The man paused for a moment, but his next words proved he had no idea who he had in front of him. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."

He then roared in rage, hurled himself at Sherlock and their impetus sent them crashing though the glass window and straight into the pool. Kyrie couldn't keep a slight shriek of surprised shock from escaping. Her heart thudded in her chest as if it was trying to burst from her.

She moved forward and bent on her knees, peering through the water, watching as the men struggled and fought for a while. Sherlock managed to land a few vicious punches against the man's chest, causing him to scream in pain. Suddenly they burst through the surface, the man's hands wrapped around Sherlock's throat and they instantly plunged underwater again.

It became a brief game of who had the longest breath and who could hold whom under the longest. First the man dragged Sherlock under, but when they briefly surfaced again, Sherlock managed to turn the tables on him.

The next time they surfaced, the intruder surprised Sherlock with a quick jab to his face and dragged him across to the jacuzzi. Another quick punch gave him the momentum he needed to haul Sherlock half over the top of the jacuzzi and he then shoved his head down into the water, holding him down.

Sherlock flailed his hands and Kyrie could see how he accidentally activated a nearby sensor, water beginning to bubble through the pool. He was in trouble and Kyrie knew now was the time to act, or her husband would drown.

With a few careful strides, mindful of the slippery tiles, Kyrie managed to get close enough so she could jump into the pool, right on top of the man's shoulders, instantly freeing Sherlock. He lifted his head from the water, coughing harshly and gasping for air.

"Get out! Now!" he barked at her while slamming his hand down onto a sensor. The two waterfalls at either side of the jacuzzi began to pour out sheets of water again.

Kyrie kicked back through the water, managing to hit the attacker in the back. As she swam to safety, she saw how Sherlock backhanded the man and then moved around to wrap one arm around his neck.

The intruder repeatedly cried out in his attempts to struggle himself free. Sherlock put his other hand over the man's head and pulled it back while bundling him towards one of the fountains, then shoving his face under the flow.

The man gagged and choked as he couldn't prevent the water from pouring into his mouth. It weakened the man sufficiently enough for Sherlock to shove him aside and quickly make for the side of the pool. The man cried out in furious outrage and wanted to chase after him, climbing out of the pool as well.

The moment he spotted Kyrie however, he seemed to change his mind and lunged for her. Kyrie danced out of the way and swiftly dashed to the kitchen where she saw Sherlock scrambling to get to the plaster bust in the bag on the floor. He grabbed it the moment the man ran into the kitchen and instantly swung the bust round, slamming it across the man's face, sending him crashing to the floor.

Kyrie quickly jumped over him, not wanting to give him any chance to grab her and use her against Sherlock and went to stand behind the breakfast bar.

"You're out of time. Tell me about your boss, Moriarty," Sherlock demanded, his voice trembling slightly.

The intruder looked up at him. "Who?" He sounded genuinely confused.

Sherlock raised the bust in a threatening manner. "I know it's him. It _must_ be him."

"You think you understand. You understand _nothing_ ," the man hissed.

"Well, before the police come in and spoil things, why don't we just enjoy the moment?" Sherlock panted and he raised the bust higher. "Let me present Interpol's number one case. Too tough for them; too boring for me."

Sherlock swung the bust back and hurled it down onto the floor where it smashed to pieces and dust. "The Black Pearl of the Borgias."

Kyrie looked down amidst the broken plaster and formed a quiet 'oh' with her mouth. That did not look like a pearl. Sherlock hadn't noticed; he was too busy being smug. The moment he lowered his gaze however, his eyes filled with shock and disbelief when he looked at a large silver memory stick. Written on the side of it in dark ink were the letters A.G.R.A.

He slowly sank to his knees, his eyes locked on the memory stick. Kyrie knew his mind was struggling to put together the snippets of information available to him.

"It's not possible. How could she...?"

Sherlock reached out and picked it up. He shook his head and his lips curled into a small smile as he briefly looked over at Kyrie. He raised himself to his feet. "There were more," he concluded. "This wasn't the only one, was it?"

The intruder got up onto his knees and turned towards Sherlock, suddenly pointing his gun at Sherlock again. His face was twisted in anguish, his eyes tearful.

"You said 'she', you recognised the memory stick... You _know_ her."

Sherlock frowned at him.

"You _do_ , don't you. You _know_ the bitch. She betrayed me; betrayed us all."

Kyrie was relieved when she could hear the sounds of police sirens approaching.

"Mary. This is about _Mary_ ," Sherlock said, more to himself than anyone else.

"Is that what she's calling herself now, eh?" the intruder asked him.

Kyrie looked round when she heard the police cars pull over. Soon she heard Greg's voice boom over a loudhailer.

" _Armed police! You're surrounded!"_

The intruder briefly glanced in the direction where the sound was coming from, then instantly looked back to Sherlock, completely ignoring Kyrie. She had a feeling however, that he was focussed on her as well and that even the slightest movement by her would not go unnoticed.

"Give it to me," the intruder demanded as he got to his feet.

When Sherlock did not comply with him, he started to yell. "Give it to me!"

" _Come out slowly. I wanna see your hands above your head."_

The man turned his head and yelled out. "Nobody shoots me! Anyone shoots, I kill this man and this woman!"

" _Lay down your weapon. Do it now!_ " Greg ordered him.

"You," the man directed his attention towards Kyrie, "Stand next to him, I want you both where I can see you."

Kyrie quickly started to move from behind the breakfast bar.

"Slowly!" The intruder yelled at her.

She carefully started to walk over to where Sherlock was standing, her heart thudding in her chest so loudly, she thought the intruder had to be able to hear it.

The intruder yelled out loudly again while starting to back away in the direction of the door. "I'm leaving this place. If no-one follows me, no-one dies."

" _Lay down your weapon!_ " Greg ordered him over the loudhailer.

"You're policemen. I'm a professional," the intruder reminded them all.

He turned back to look at the both of them, as Kyrie was now standing next to Sherlock.

"Tell her she's a dead woman. She's a dead woman walking."

Sherlock held his gaze. "She's my friend and she's under my protection," he spoke, slightly moving his body in front of Kyrie. "Who are you?"

"I'm the man..." the intruder said, his voice shaking with rage. "... who's gonna kill your friend. Who's Sherlock Holmes?"

"Not a police officer."

The intruder briefly pointed at Kyrie, making Sherlock push her behind him.

"Who's she?" the man asked.

"Also not a police officer," Sherlock bit out through gritted teeth.

The man swiftly shifted his aim and fired a the sensor beside the door to the pool room. It exploded with sparks and a loud noise, causing Kyrie to jump and yelp in fright. All the lights went out except a couple of uplighters at the far end of the pool.

When a high-pitched alarm began to shriek and a white alarm light started to strobe in the pool room, the chaos was complete. The intruder used the moment to turn and run for the door. Sherlock pulled Kyrie close to him as he watched him go. He then looked down at the memory stick in his free hand.


	93. Feeding the Poor

**A/N Sherlock gets drugged, Kyrie apparently likes to feed 'the poor', well, some poor unfortunate soul actually. Also, they track down Mary.**

 **Judygrasham About the metrics of FF... Yes, I can see how often a chapter has been viewed and how many visitors have landed on a chapter. It's in a breakdown by month and chapter. In total my 'story' has been viewed 57,319 times. On average my chapters get between 200-300 visitors a month, with views between 400-500. Those are the statistics right now, looking further back, those numbers get lower. Probably because reader base is slowly growing. So, yay for that!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Yeah, Kyrie knows she could be a liability to Sherlock if she's not careful as she has no fighting skills or any other useful skills in a hairy situation. So, she trusts his judgement and does as she's told. This little taste of 'danger' does makes her realise it's not a life for her, further establishing her own role as... 'after care'.**

 **Guest... Hmm... DreamonAlina not logged in? Anyway, thank you! For for recognising that little throwback Dartmoor. I was hoping someone would get it. This pleases me greatly!**

 **Ironlace Haha, glad you like his new little term of endearment!**

 **EllemichelleP I will definitely try to make you cry ugly. Whether I will actually succeed remains to be seen. Do let me know, please :D**

 **Deschperado I'm sure you will get to this point soon. So... Nice to see you back and thank you for leaving me reviews for the chapters you are now reading!**

 **Okay... Let's get reading! And for me... Let's get writing!**

SSS

Kyrie was shooting her husband angry glares. He ignored them, standing in front of his chair holding the memory stick by one end and repeatedly tapped it against the fingers of his other hand while he frowned in concentration.

He'd long since changed into dry clothes, his purple shirt already in the washer. He was now wearing a grey blue shirt that had been given the name 'Silver Mist' to indicate the colour.

The reason why Kyrie was angry with him, was because he'd simply refused to have himself checked out by the paramedics, claiming it was a waste of time because he was 'fine'. He didn't look fine. There was already a dark bruise forming under his left eye.

Sherlock had also briefly glanced at the contents of the memory stick, warning Kyrie to not look at anything. When she asked why, he told her that he was able to separate the 'Mary' on the stick, from his friend 'Mary'. Kyrie had already proven she couldn't do such a thing.

Though she understood that Sherlock was protecting her by protecting her friendship with Mary, she was curious too. So, she'd made him a deal. In return for her not looking at the contents of the memory stick, she had a request for him...

"Never confront a criminal by yourself, promise me that at least. You would have died tonight if you'd been on your own."

He'd gently brushed his lips against hers. "I promise. I know you are still angry with me, I _am_ perfectly fine though."

"You're going to confront Mary by yourself, aren't you?" she'd asked him with a frown.

"Yes and that's not breaking my promise to you. Mary is not a criminal and she would never harm me like that again. Not her daughter's godfather. Not her husband's best friend. Not her best friend's husband. I made a vow, Kyrie, to them. I intend to keep that vow."

"I know," she'd whispered, before softly kissing him again.

Kyrie looked up, brought back from her musings, when the door opened and Greg came in. Sherlock turned to look at him.

"Well?" he asked impatiently.

Greg shook his head. "He can't have got far. We'll have him in a bit."

"I very much doubt it." Sherlock took out his phone and started to type on it.

"Why?" Greg asked him.

Sherlock turned and headed for the door, still typing on his phone. "Because I think he used to work with Mary." He then disappeared onto the landing.

Greg raised his hand in greeting and gave her a slight smile before he headed out again.

Sherlock came back walking into the living room, all ready to go, dressed in his greatcoat and his new scarf wrapped around his neck. Kyrie slowly got to her bare feet and Sherlock took a few tentative steps until he was standing right in front of her.

He looked down at her with a bittersweet little smile. "I'll be fine, I promise..." he said, tracing her cheekbone with his fingers. "... shortcake."

Kyrie lightly punched her fist against his chest. "Gangly prat."

He snorted with laugher. "I like that one." His smile faded and he dipped his head, stopping a hairsbreadth away from her. She instantly closed the small gap and pressed her lips against his, slipping her tongue between his lips the moment they parted for her.

He tasted so damn good. Eagerly, Kyrie's tongue danced with his. His slightly spicy and chemical smell, the taste of him swirling through her mouth, it made her knees turn weak. Their tongues and teeth clashed together, eliciting a humoured chuckle from his throat that turned to a low guttural groan when Kyrie pressed herself against him.

She suddenly pulled back and stared into his eyes that had turned dark and sultry. She knew she saw her own desire mirrored there. "Come back to me," she whispered. "Don't let this be our last kiss."

He smiled slightly. "As far as last kisses go..."

"Promise me!" she insisted.

"I promise."

He then cupped her face for a last sweet kiss. "I have to go now," he said softly.

"Be safe." She cautioned him.

Sherlock walked through the door, then suddenly leaned back and click-winked at her. "Be right back... shortcake."

"Just go already, you gangly prat!"

She grinned when she heard him chuckle as he bounded down the steps.

SSS

Kyrie waited for Sherlock for what felt like hours. She dozed off a couple of times and before she knew it, she actually had waited several hours. Right, that was enough. She knew where he was supposed to meet Mary, so she quickly put on her coat and her blue-violet scarf that had 'just the right shade'.

She got her phone and sent Mary a text.

\- Please tell me you didn't shoot him again. K.

Kyrie bounded down the steps, went outside and tried to hail herself a taxi. It took her several attempts. Cabbies either didn't notice her, or, when a taxi would pull over, someone else would quickly clamour inside.

She was seething by the time a taxi did stop for her and she quickly got inside. Only then did she notice that Mary had never responded to her text. Worrying her lip, she sent Sherlock a text.

\- Are you okay?  
Mary is not responding.

She stared at the phone, willing it to show her a message. Each second felt like a minute and each minute like an hour. Finally her phoned chimed but she was already reading the message.

\- Fine  
Going to see Mycroft  
Diogenes Office

Kyrie quickly gave the cabbie the address to the new destination.

\- On my way.

When the taxi finally pulled over in front of the Diogenes Club, Kyrie quickly paid the cabbie and clamoured outside. To her surprise, she found Sherlock actually waiting for her. She had expected him to have just gone ahead.

"What happened?" she asked when she noticed the unhappy look on his face.

"She's gone," he said, then quickly amended himself when she gasped. "I mean, she left. I told her I'd protect her but... she drugged me. She handed me a paper to read, but it was covered with some sort of drugging agent. When I came to, she was already gone. She took the memory stick with her."

"Well, it's a good thing then that John came up with the, honestly, brilliant idea to stick a tracer on the inside of the memory stick," Kyrie said with a soft smile, softly tracing the area just below the dark bruise under his left eye.

Sherlock chuckled and briefly closed his eyes. "Quite right," he said. He softly pecked her cheek and took her hand in his. "Let's meet the Queen."

Kyrie snorted with laughter.

SSS

Kyrie and Sherlock were seated in front of Mycroft's desk. Mycroft leaned back in his chair, feet propped up on his desk.

"Thank you, sister dear..." he said nonchalantly. "... for the Goulash you had brought over."

She felt her cheeks get warm and she looked down to 'study her nails'. From the corners of her eyes she noticed Sherlock giving her a look.

"You've been feeding him too?" he asked incredulously.

"Of course I have!" she said with a huff. "He's even worse than you! Doesn't take care of himself at all."

Mycroft looked away, his mouth opened awkwardly.

"Have you seen what's inside of his fridge? Nothing! Zilch! Nada! Niets! Niks! Rien! Nichts! Niente...!"

"We get the point, sister dear," Mycroft said with an easy smile. "You've been brushing up on languages?"

"Just for the word 'nothing'. Been saving it for a moment like this," she admitted with a grin.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Begs the question when you've visited him at his home," he muttered.

"I've been there several times, not that you'd know because you never ask or seem to care. Now, can we please get back to what we are actually here for?"

"Ah yes, Agra," Mycroft mused. "A city on the banks of the river Yamuna in the northern state of Uttar Pradesh, India. It is three hundred and seventy-eight kilometres west of the state capital, Lucknow..."

Sherlock gave him a look. "What are you, _Wikipedia_?"

Mycroft smiled at them. "Yes."

"He _is_ , you know," Kyrie said, showing Sherlock the Wikipedia entry on her phone. "He just quoted the Wikipedia 'Agra' entry almost word for word."

Sherlock breathed deeply. "AGRA is an acronym."

"Oh, good. I _love_ an acronym. All the best secret societies have them."

"Including the Illuminati?"

"Maybe not them."

"Team of agents," Sherlock said, raising his voice a bit. "... the best. But you know all that."

"Of _course_ I do. Go on."

"One of them, Ajay, is looking for Mary, _also_ one of the team."

"Indeed? Well, that's _news_ to me," Mycroft said dryly.

" _Is_ it?" Sherlock said in a way that betrayed he didn't trust his brothers' words at all.

Mycroft lowered his head and gave them a knowing little smile.

"He's already killed looking for that memory stick. AGRA always worked for the highest bidder. I thought that might include you."

"Me?" Mycroft asked, frowning.

"Well, I mean the British government or whatever government you're currently _propping_ up."

"AGRA were very reliable. Then came the Tbilisi incident. They were sent in to free the hostages but it all went horribly wrong. And that was that. We stopped using freelancers."

"Your initiative?"

"My initiative. Freelancers are too woolly. Too messy. I don't like loose ends. Not on my watch."

Sherlock leaned forward and pulled a notepad on the desk towards himself. "There was something else. A detail; a code word." He scribbled the word AMMO on the notepad, then turned it round and shoved it over to his brother.

"AMMO?"

"It's all I've got," Sherlock said with a shrug of his shoulder.

"Little enough," Mycroft said, giving him a look.

"Could you do some digging, as a favour?" Sherlock asked. Kyrie knew how much Sherlock hated doing this. He was now practically grovelling in front of his brother. Sherlock didn't grovel.

"You don't have many favours left," Mycroft said with a treacherous smile.

"Then I'm calling them _all_ in," Sherlock replied flatly.

Kyrie slammed her hand against the desk, making both of the brothers look up at her in surprise. If eyes could literally shoot daggers, Mycroft would now resemble a pin cushion.

"Then let's talk about the favours you owe _me_ , Croft!" she hissed at him. "Do you want me to make a list?"

Mycroft lowered his eyes, his cheeks, even the tips of his ears, burned bright red. "If you _can_ find who's after her and neutralise them, what then? You think you can go on saving her forever?"

"Of course," Sherlock said flippantly.

"Is that sentiment talking?"

"No. It's _me_."

"Difficult to tell the difference these days," Mycroft said, mocking him.

"Croft!"

Mycroft pulled his lips in a thin line, his nostrils flared but he refrained from commenting.

" _Told_ you," Sherlock reminded him, a small smile on his lips, "I made a promise, a vow."

Mycroft took his feet off the desk. "All right. I'll see what I can do." He leaned forward and clasped his fingers together. "But remember this, brother mine... Agents like Mary tend not to reach retirement age. They _get_ retired in a pretty permanent sort of way."

Sherlock got to his feet and gave his brother a pointed look. "Not on my watch," he said, slowly and determinedly. He then turned on his heel and left his brother's office

"Don't say stuff like that, My," Kyrie implored him. "Please."

Mycroft bowed his head and nodded at her. "Apologies," he said softly.

She nodded back and him and walked to the door. Before she left, she looked back over her shoulder. "Salmon and asparagus tomorrow," Kyrie said quickly. "With lemon-garlic butter sauce."

He smiled gratefully. "Much obliged, sister dear. Good night."

She smiled back at him. "You too, My."

SSS

Sherlock gave Karim a smug little smile. "Mr Baker. Well, that completes the set." He was sitting cross-legged on the floor behind a low table. A young boy, well, early teens, was also sitting cross-legged on the floor, right across from him.

Sherlock was wearing that midnight blue shirt that Kyrie had spotted and instantly gotten him, nearly prancing with impatience for him to try it on and see if it matched his new scarf. It did. And he'd gotten to wear that shirt for all about five minutes before she'd been in a hurry to peel it off of him again. And not to return it to the shop.

It had been his first introduction to what Kyrie had called a 'quickie'. He didn't count that one hurried encounter in the bathroom because he'd been fully naked back then. Anyway, his shirt had been the only piece of garment that had been discarded. For the rest it had been a matter of hurriedly bunching up a few garments, and pulling down a few other garments.

Karim's laughter pulled him back to the present. He cleared his throat. "Well, who else am I missing?"

"Master Bun. It's not a set without him. How many more times, Mr Sherlock?" Karim mildly chided him.

He hummed out an exasperated breath and noticed the person they'd been waiting for, had just arrived. "Maybe it's because I'm only just getting familiar with the concept." He shot back. "Oh, hi Mary," he then said nonchalantly, briefly looking at her.

Karim only spared her a quick glance before looking back at him. "What concept?" he asked.

"Happy families."

Now Sherlock looked up at her. "Nice trip?" He asked her, perhaps a bit overly cheerful. But it was sooo hard to keep a straight face.

"How the f..."

He quickly interrupted her, gesturing at Karim. "Please, Mary. There is a child present." He felt particularly proud about remembering that cussing was 'not done' in front of small children.

Mary sighed, sounding rather exasperated. "How did you get in here?!"

"Karim let me in," Sherlock. Should be enough explanation for her. She was more than moderately intelligent after all.

Smiling, Karim waved at her. "Hello."

Mary pursed her lips in a tight smile and nodded at him, pulling her headscarf down onto her shoulders. Oh, that was a rather nasty looking wig on her! Long dark bob? What the hell was she thinking? Sherlock scrunched his face up in distaste.

"Karim." He leaned a bit forward to look at his young friend. "Would you be so kind as to fetch us some tea?"

"Sure," the boy told him obligingly and instantly sprung to his feet.

"Thank you."

Mary gave him one of those insincere little smiles. "No, I-I-I mean how did you find me?"

Really? Why were people still surprised about these things? "I'm Sherlock Holmes," he therefore stated as if that should be completely obvious.

But Mary shook her head at him. "No, _really_ , though, how? Every movement I made was entirely random. Every new personality, just on the roll of a dice!"

 _Straight face. Keep a straight face. You've practised this. You can DO this._ He pulled in a deep breath and tried to maintain an impassive look on his face. "Mary, no human action is ever truly random." He started to explain with ever increasing speed. Oh, he was good! "An advanced grasp of the mathematics of probability mapped onto a thorough apprehension of human psychology and the known dispositions of any given individual can reduce the number of variables considerably."

Mary stared at him with a blank look on her face. Yeah, try and keep up with THAT!

"I myself know of at least fifty _-eight_ techniques to refine this seemingly _infinite_ array of randomly generated possibilities down to the smallest number of feasible variables." Was there anything more he could say? Hm, no. He was pretty sure he'd run out of bullshit.

Mary nodded as if she actually had a clue about the nonsense he'd just blurted out.

"But they're really difficult, so instead I just... stuck a tracer on the inside of the memory stick."

Her mouth dropped open and Sherlock's façade crumbled down... he snorted with laughter and then she joined in as well. "Oh, you bastard!" she said, laughing and she shook her head, looking down as he was giggling helplessly.

"I know..." he managed to say. "... but your face!"

"You bastard!"

" _The mathematics of probability_?!" Mary said in a mocking tone.

Sherlock nodded his head and pursed his lips feeling, absolutely invincible, on fire, on top of the world and utterly, utterly, utterly smug! "You believed that," he said, stating an irrefutable fact.

Mary threw up her hands. "Feasible variables!"

He looked upwards in contemplation. "Yes. I started to run out about then. Actually, I _had_ run out."

She grinned and clenched her hands on either side of her head in mock-frustration. "In the _memory_ stick!"

And then, right on cue, John came walking into the room, together with Kyrie.

"Yeah, that was my idea," he told her, looking right at her with a straight face. Kyrie gently nudged him in the ribs.

Her smile slowly dropped, making place for an anxious look...


	94. R is for Rosamund

**A/N Oooh! So close! We are nearing the end of the Six Thatchers! *gasps* First the showdown with Ajay though.**

 **Thewickedprinces I was waiting for an opportunity to have her say that. I laughed a bit, imagining Kyrie doing a Google search on how to say 'nothing' in different languages, just to show off in front of the boys! And Mycroft's empty fridge nearly broke my heart. And I knew that the moment Kyrie would learn of his sad empty fridge, she'd make sure have healthy food be brought over to him.**

 **EllemichelleP I will keep an ear out for your sobbing next chapter. If I don't hear them... Well, then I did something wrong!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 No, Molly is home looking after Rosie. Since they had no idea that Ajay would track them down, meaning they weren't expecting danger, there was no way Kyrie would not join the boys to get Mary back. Mycroft will forever be in Kyrie's debt, and not just for her keeping him fed. Though she has long since forgiven him, she can't forget the fact that he had a large hand in Sherlock's suicide and let her live in misery for two years.**

 **Jane S. Gold Glad you liked the chapter. I hope you will enjoy this one too!**

 **DreamonAlina I think Sherlock has trouble 'sharing' Kyrie with others, especially his brother. Even if it something as simple as food or tea (she still keeps a special Darjeeling bland just for Mycroft in the cupboard).**

 **Time to go and read this chapter... And then leave me a review ;-)**

 **SSS**

Night had fallen outside and Kyrie could hear the call to prayer. They were still in hotel Cecil. She was sitting on a simple, dark wooden chair. Sherlock was sitting to her right on an identical chair. Kyrie was tired and leaned her head against his shoulder while Mary and John were having a little talk, trying to sort things through.

"AGRA," John said, dispassionately.

"Yes."

Mary was standing right in front of John, who was sitting on the corner of the low table. She'd taken off her dark wig, revealing her much better looking blonde hair, though it looked a bit weird now that she had tied it back.

"Mm-hm. You said it was your initials."

She worried her lip. "In a way, that was true."

"In a way?" he asked, his voice gaining a bit of a hard edge. He shook his head and looked away. "So many lies," he said gruffly.

"John." Kyrie called him softly. "You forgave Mary for her past a long time ago, no point in getting angry over semantics now. If _I_ can forgive her for nearly killing Sherlock, surely _you_ can forgive her for saying that 'in a way' the letters 'AGRA' are her initials."

"I'm so sorry," Mary said, adding to Kyrie's words.

John nodded his head. "Fine. So, Alex, Gabriel, Ajay... You're 'R'"

She nodded. John looked up at her, a small tight smile on his face. "Rosamund," he averred.

"Rosamund Mary... I- I always liked 'Mary'." She gave him a hesitant smile.

John smiled back at her. "Yeah, me too."

His smile dropped slowly. "Never again, Mary. Don't you _dare_ to ever run out on me and Rosie again."

Mary nodded her head at him fervently. "I promise, John. I ju... I didn't know what else to do."

John gave her a bit of a grim look. "You could have stayed. You could have talked to me." His voice became more angry. "That's what couples are _supposed_ to do, work things through."

"Yes," Mary nodded again. "Yes, of course."

He got up from the table and took a step closer to her. "Mary, I may not be a _very_ good man, I have my flaws, I know... but I think I'm a bit better than you give me credit for, most of the time."

"All the time," Mary choked out. "You're always a good man, John. I've never doubted that. You never judge; you never complain. I don't deserve you. I..." She trailed off but John gave her an inquiring look.

"All I ever wanted to do was keep you and Rosie safe, that's all. I-I can't even stand the thought of something bad happening to you, or her."

He reached out and put his hand on top of her clasped hands.

"Come on, John!" Kyrie chided him lightly. "You can do better than that!"

He chuckled and then pulled his wife into his arms and hugged her tight. Mary started to laugh and cry at the same time.

"I _will_ keep you safe," Sherlock suddenly said, his voice firm but soft.

John and Mary both looked round at him.

He slowly got up from the chair, gently pulling Kyrie with him. He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her against him, lightly rubbing her upper arm. "But it has to be in London. It's my city. I know the turf. Come home and everything will be all right, I promise you."

Sudden the red dot of a laser appeared on the wall behind the Watsons and then shifted onto the side of John's head.

"Get down!" Sherlock yelled.

Trusting Sherlock implicitly, Mary grabbed John and pulled him down. Sherlock kicked the table over onto one side to provide John with a barrier. He then shoved Kyrie behind a small cabinet and quickly pulled her down, shielding her with his body.

She couldn't see a damn thing as Sherlock kept her pinned against the cabinet, but it seemed as if all hell broke loose. She didn't dare to move when shots rang out, echoing through the room. Kyrie was deathly afraid and pressed her hands against her ears. This was nothing like in the movies! It was way more terrifying and the shots sounded a lot louder than she'd expected.

She trembled violently with fear and whimpered a little, only calming just a little when Sherlock pressed himself against her.

"Hello again," someone said. Kyrie did not recognise the voice, but apparently Mary did.

"Ajay?"

"Oh, you remember me. I'm touched."

Mary hid behind a small sidetable that was just to the right of the cabinet where Sherlock and Kyrie were hiding. "Look, I thought you were dead, believe me, I did."

"I've been looking forward to this for longer than you can imagine," Ajay said, ignoring her remark.

"I swear to you, I thought you were dead. I thought I was the only one who got out." Mary tried again.

Kyrie flinched when she heard another gunshot. It hit the upturned table behind which John was hiding. She trembled when she saw how Sherlock stretched out a hand towards Mary. When he pulled his hand back, he was holding her gun. Kyrie looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear. Though he didn't say a word, the look in his eyes requested her to trust him. She nodded her head. Because she did trust him. Always.

"How did you find us?" Sherlock asked the man who Mary had called 'Ajay'.

"By following you, Sherlock Holmes. I mean, you're clever – you found _her_ – but I found _you_ , so perhaps _not_ so clever. And now here we are, at last."

Sherlock looked around and Kyrie could see how his eyes briefly settled on the light hanging from the ceiling. In one fluid motion, he stood up, fired at the light – shattering it, instantly bathing the room in darkness – then swung the pistol round to aim at what Kyrie assumed was Ajay's position.

She could hear the man chuckle. "Touché."

"Listen," John began in and a firm but imploring tone, "Whatever you _think_ you know, we can talk about this. We can work it out."

"She thought I was dead. I might as well have been."

Kyrie flinched hearing the pain that seeped through in his voice.

"It was always just the four of us, _always_ , remember?" Mary said, her voice pleading.

"Oh yeah."

Kyrie didn't like the way he said that. She liked it even less that Sherlock was standing upright, out of cover, his legs still trapping her against the cabinet. For now, she was glad that Ajay did not want to find out how accurate of a shot Sherlock was. She wasn't sure if she wanted to find out either.

"So why d'you want to kill me?"

"D'you know how long they kept me prisoner?" Ajay asked Mary. "What they did to me? They tortured Alex to death." He breathed out a brief sigh at his next words. "I can still hear the sound of his back breaking. But you, you – where were you?"

"That day at the embassy, I escaped," Mary replied, her voice trembling a bit.

The news of Alex death, the way he'd died, even though she'd already thought him dead for all those years, Kyrie knew it had unnerved her.

Ajay grunted something unintelligible but the tone conveyed so much more than his words. He thought Mary was bullshitting him.

"But I lost sight of you too," Mary continued. "So _you_ explain: where were _you_?"

"Oh, I got out... for a while. Long enough to hide my memory stick. I didn't want that to fall into their hands," Ajay told her, his voice biting.

So that's how the memory stick had ended up inside one of the busts.

" _I_ was loyal, you see. Loyal to my friends. But they took me, tortured me. Not for information. Not for anything except _fun_... Oh, they thought I'd give in, die, but I didn't. I lived, and eventually they forgot about me just rotting in a cell somewhere."

Kyrie closed her eyes in disgust and dismay at the fate that had befallen this man. No wonder he was hell bent on revenge!

"Six _years_ they kept me there, until one day I saw my chance. Oh, and I-I made them pay. You know, all the time I was there, I just kept picking up things – little whispers, laughter, gossip. How the clever agents had been betrayed. Brought down by _you_."

"Me?" Mary asked in surprise.

And that explained why Ajay was now suddenly tracking down those busts. He'd just escaped and now wanted revenge on the woman he held responsible for those years he'd spent in hell. Kyrie let out a shuddering breath.

A vehicle sped by, siren blaring as it went past the window, its light briefly illuminating the room. Several things happened at once in just the blink of an eye and suddenly Kyrie found herself pressed against the wall, Sherlock standing right in front of her. His hands were on either side of his body, tensed, ready to spring into action at a moments notice. His body was blocking most of her view, but she caught a glimpse of Mary and Ajay standing right in front of each other, both holding the other at gunpoint.

"You know I'll kill you too. You know I _will_ , Ajay," Mary stated calmly.

Ajay however was breathing heavily. "What, you think I care if I die?"

Sherlock carefully shifted his position, moving closer towards Mary while shielding Kyrie from sight and range. Kyrie could see his gaze was fixed on the gun Ajay was holding. That gun, his hand, it was all Kyrie could see of him.

"I've dreamed of killing you every night for six years..." Ajay told her.

Kyrie could hear him step forward and suddenly the side of his face appeared in her view as he leaned forward so that the end of Mary's gun was touching his forehead.

"... of squeezing the life out of your treacherous, lying throat." His voice sounded harsh and savage.

"I swear to you, Ajay," Mary said, nodding her head slightly.

"What did you hear, Ajay?" Sherlock asked the man, his voice calm and quiet, as if he was in no danger at all of getting shot. "When you were a prisoner, what _exactly_ did you hear?"

"What did I hear?" He paused for a brief moment. "Ammo," he then said. "Every day as they tore into me. Ammo. Ammo." His voice starts to tremble. " _Ammo_. Ammo." His hand holding the gun started to tremble as well. Kyrie saw Mary grimace slightly. Even as a layman, Kyrie could tell this man was unravelling on the spot, making him unpredictable and very dangerous.

"We were betrayed!" he said through gritted teeth, his voice rough with anger.

"And they said it was her?" Sherlock asked him, still sounding like a paragon of patience.

" _You_ betrayed us!" Ajay accused Mary.

"They said her _name_?" This time Sherlock sounded impatience because the man refused to clearly answer his question.

"Yeah, they said it was the English woman," Ajay snapped at him.

Suddenly two consecutive shots rang out. Ajay crumpled to the floor and Mary screamed as he dropped. " _No_! No!"

She instantly dropped her gun, bent down to him as John hurried from where ever he'd been hiding to join her. Kyrie ventured a glance around the cabinet, figuring the threat was over. She saw a Moroccan policeman standing in the doorway, his gun still raised, just as Karim walked in carrying a tray. There were four silver cups on it, mint leaves sticking out of them.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw John checking Ajay's neck for a pulse and instantly dropped the tray, letting it crash to the floor.

SSS

Ajay's body was quickly removed from the room. The police had been pressing them from statements but when Sherlock gave Mycroft a call, it didn't take long before the officers at the scene suddenly received an order to stand down. Mycroft's handy work no doubt.

John and Mary had left the room, Sherlock and Kyrie stayed behind.

"The English woman," Sherlock told Mycroft as he was still talking to him. "That's all he heard. Naturally he assumed it was Mary."

Kyrie couldn't hear what Mycroft said, but Sherlock didn't seem to agree with him. "No, it's not over. Ajay said that they'd been betrayed. The hostage takers _knew_ AGRA were coming. There was only a voice on the phone, remember, and a code word."

There was a brief pause before Sherlock started talking again. "How's your Latin, brother dear?"He asked, his voice calm and quiet.

"Amo, amas, amat," he then said, stressing the T of the last word. Kyrie didn't know Latin at all so she had no idea what it meant.

"Not 'ammo' as in 'ammunition' but 'amo,' meaning...?"

Suddenly the call ended. Apparently, Mycroft understood Sherlock's message. Whatever is was.

"Sherlock?" Kyrie called him, her voice quiet. She was still pretty shook up herself. He turned to her, that odd faraway look still in his eyes. She knew his mind was already racing far ahead of all of them.

"Love," he explained, his voice precise. "When we were at Whitehall in London, my brother said that only those present in the room would ever know the whole truth of that night... when I shot Gerulf. He mentioned those four people, by their code names. Do you remember them?"

Kyrie scrunched up her face and closed her eyes, trying to recall that moment. She remembered Mycroft standing in that room, facing the table with three people sitting behind it. _"A D-notice has been slapped on the entire incident."_ Kyrie remembered him saying. " _Only those within this room – code names..._ "

Her lips formed the words she started to remember. "Antarctica, Langdale... Porlock, and... Love. _Love_!" she said, opening her eyes. Sherlock looked at her with a small smile playing on his lips.

"Exactly," he told her.

"What does that mean?"

He moved in for a quick kiss on the top of her head. "It means we have to go back to London."

SSS

It was a quiet flight back home. Sherlock was sitting in an aisle seat, his eyes closed. Kyrie was sitting next to him, slowly nodding off now the tension was finally leaving her body. Her fingers were still entwined with his. He'd covered her hand earlier, noticing it was trembling in her lap. At some point their fingers had just kind of locked together.

John and Mary were both sitting in the row in front of them. As they were silent, Kyrie assumed they too were asleep, so she closed her eyes as well, trying to get some rest before the aeroplane would tough down again.

Back in London, John and Mary hurried off to pick up Rosie who'd been left behind in Molly's care and Sherlock, after finding Kyrie a taxi that would bring her to Baker Street, told her he was meeting up with Mycroft at the Diogenes Club. Kyrie understood what he was not saying. They were going to confront Lady Smallwood. Code name: Love.

Baker Street was awfully quiet though, now that Mrs Hudson was away. She was treating her sister and herself to a short vacation to Corfu. She had finally decided that Mr Chatterjee was neither worth her time, nor her money. She wouldn't be back 'til Saturday.

Kyrie didn't want to call or visit Mary, figuring she and John could use some alone time to spend with their little girl and catch up. In the end, she just started her chores around the flat.

She gathered the clothes that needed to be washed and she sorted through the fabrics and colours. She then set aside his trousers and pants, and several of her skirts and dresses that needed to go to the dry cleaners.

Kyrie changed the bed linen, hung up his red dressing gown in the bedroom wardroom as he tended to just hang his dressing gowns on a peg near the doors between kitchen and living room.

Careful not to misplace the order in any of his papers, she made neat little stacks of his papers, files and folders.

Not feeling like giving the entire flat a scrub, Kyrie settled herself in her's slash John's chair with a book about making fresh home made pasta. A new project she would like to give a go. She just had to convince Sherlock to give up the kitchen table whenever she wanted and needed the room for making and rolling pasta dough.

She was just in the process of making notes and sticking out post-its on the pages with mouth-watering recipes she wanted to give a go, when Sherlock suddenly walked in through the living room door.

Kyrie looked up from her book when Sherlock stopped right in front of her.

"I figured it out," he told her and then gave her an appraising look. "How do you feel about confronting the person who betrayed Mary, with me?"

Her mouth dropped open, slightly. Then she squinted her eyes and looked at him. "Will it be dangerous?" she asked.

She wasn't entirely sure she could handle another life-or-death situation. Though she knew Sherlock thrived on the danger that came with solving cases, she didn't have a taste for it. She just couldn't understand how Sherlock and John, sometimes even Mary, could wander in all laughing and giddy after having just escaped the jaws of death, yet again. She did enjoy seeing his mind at work, firing on all pistons when he deduced the smallest of details out of _everything_ , but she could do well without the life threats.

He shrugged his shoulders. "She's an elderly woman."

Kyrie looked up at him. He said 'woman' not 'lady'. "So, it wasn't _Lady_ Smallwood?"

Sherlock's lips curled into a big grin and he pulled her from her sitting position, the book tumbling from her lap. "Look at that," he said, as he dipped his head. "I believe I'm starting to rub off on you."

He then placed his lips over hers and kissed her tenderly. There was no rush, no insistence, just him sweetly tasting her lips. "You always taste like fruit," he whispered. He paused for a moment. "Except maybe in the mornings."

Kyrie couldn't help herself, she burst out laughing. Sherlock chuckled along with her. She swatted his chest. "You don't exactly taste like morning dew yourself then, Mr Holmes. And by the way, _you're_ the one with little to no patience to wait till after I'm done with my morning routine."

"Hmm," he hummed with a smile.

She looked up at him and felt a desire the broach the subject of children while he was in a mood like this. Particular his thoughts about ever having any. But, she knew now was not the best of moments. Not if they were about to confront Mary's betrayer, together. She wanted him to have a clear head and not panicking over the prospect of possibly becoming a father.

"Yes," she said. "I'm coming with you. I want to be there when you take down the person who betrayed my best friend."

"I thought as much," he said as he glanced at his watch. "Come, there's time for you to have dinner at Angelo's, or... anywhere else you might like. I know exactly where to find our person of interest and when."

"It's Vivian, isn't it?" Kyrie asked as she walked in the direction of the landing to fetch her coat.

"Yes," he said simply.

Kyrie briefly disappeared into their bedroom to fetch one of her scarves from her walk-in closet. She settled on the one that Sherlock found too violet to correctly match her eyes, but reminded him of the stormy look they could have when she was angry.

"Angelo's would be nice," she said, looping the scarf around her neck, walking up to him as he was already waiting for her at the top of the stairs. "I assume you won't be having anything yourself?"

"You assume correctly," he said, his lips pulled in a grim line.

SSS

Angelo was over the moon, as always, when they showed up at his restaurant. He immediately guided them towards their usual spot and gushed how happy he was to see them both so well. He made a great display of fetching candles and a vase with flowers to create a 'romantic' ambience.

Sherlock just sat back with a slight smile on his lips as Angelo fussed over Kyrie. Though Angelo always called Sherlock by his first, or actually... second name, he seemed to like to refer to her as _Mrs_ Holmes, putting emphasis on the title.

Since Sherlock was not eating with her and would also not steal bits and pieces from her plate, Kyrie decided to go for a minestrone.

She'd tried to make it herself once, for Sherlock when he was working on a case. She'd told him it was a 'cleansing soup', **meant to be eaten after being stuffed with other food, because it's so light and kind to one's stomach.** Kyrie had thought it would be perfect for him to eat during a case without 'upsetting' his thought processes. He wouldn't even have a single taste.

Feeling the tension radiate off of him, Kyrie ate her soup in silence, not even able to finish the entire bowl as nerves racked through her body.

After her dinner, when they stepped into the chilly evening air, Sherlock briefly pulled her close to him, assuring all would be fine, before hailing the both of them a taxi.


	95. When you are hurt, I hurt too

**A/N No clever words from your author this time, because you all know what's coming. I know that this chapter will be loved by some and be hated by others. I hope you will all still stick to reading this story, at least give the next chapter a chance. I also hope you have boxes of tissues ready.**

 **DreamonAlina They really have come a long way, haven't they? Look out for another bittersweet little throwback to the past this chapter.**

 **EllemichelleP But pulling off the Bandaid agonisingly slow is so much more fun to do! I'll be perking my ears for the sounds of sobbing. Or yelling. Or screaming. Or maybe I failed and I'll hear nothing. That would be the saddest thing of all.**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 That's for me to know and for you to find out, this chapter...**

 **judygrasham I know right? That's why I added all those extra fluffy bits. To stick the hot poker in a little deeper. I cried writing this.**

 **IronLace Yep, from domestic bliss and sweet happiness to... well... the end of this chapter and the next episode.**

 **Hestia28 I guess you will just have to read this chapter to know what happens.**

 **So... For better or worse... I don't know... here is (almost) the conclusion to TST. I guess I will skip the 'Enjoy this chapter' this time round. *hangs head in silence***

SSS

Kyrie was surprised when Sherlock took her into the Sea Life London Aquarium, housed inside County Hall.

"Sherlock?" she asked nervously, pulling at his sleeve. She couldn't help herself... After the two violent confrontations with Ajay, her nerves were frazzled and she didn't like the thought of confronting Vivian just by themselves. Even _if_ Sherlock merely considered her to be 'an elderly woman'.

When he turned round to look at her, Kyrie felt slightly embarrassed, knowing she looked pale like a ghost and her eyes were wide with fear. "It won't be just... us... right?" she squeaked.

Instead of teasing her with her fear, he gently grazed the skin of her cheek with his knuckles. "No," he said, his voice quiet, but filled with warmth. "I kind of promised Mary I'd be more mindful of the situation. I texted her and John, they should be on their way. Mycroft and Lestrade as well. Does that ease your mind?"

She beamed up at him. Her heart jolted when she noticed he swallowed and his eyes turned darker, smokier. "You don't have to be afraid," he whispered. "Not when I'm with you."

He dipped his head and captured her lips with his. He slipped his tongue between her lips and teased her, inviting her tongue to come out and play and dance with his. Kyrie wrapped her arms around his neck to steady herself, eliciting a deep rumbling chuckle from him that she could feel in his chest.

"I'm never afraid for myself, Sherlock," she whispered when he gently released her. "Only for you. You're too cocky and over-confident for your own good."

"Only because _you_ think of _me_ as an invincible hero," he said with a smirk.

"A hero, yes," Kyrie agreed. "Invincible? No. Even you can get hurt, Sherlock. And when you are hurt, I hurt too."

Sherlock held out his hand to her.

" _I don't do **holding hands**. It's not me, it never will be." _That's what he'd told her one day. Years ago.

Kyrie took his hand with a smile. How things could change...

They both quietly made their way along the blue-lit corridors and through the glass tunnels under the water, the only sounds being their own footsteps and the blood Kyrie could hear pounding in her ears. Her trembling hand remained firmly clasped in his steady one.

Under normal circumstances, she would have enjoyed the spectacle all around her. Now, she just stayed as close to Sherlock as she could as he led her along.

A tannoy announcement informed them of the impending closing time of the Aquarium. " _Ladies and gentlemen, the Aquarium will be closing in five minutes. Please make your way to the exit. Thank you._ "

Whatever would happen, it would happen after opening hours.

They continued onwards until they reached an enclosed area with benches where people could sit and look at the various tanks all around. A woman was sitting on one of the benches with her back to them, though Kyrie knew it was Vivian.

"Your office said I'd find you here," Sherlock said, announcing their arrival. He released Kyrie's hand and walked further into the area.

"This was always my favourite spot for agents to meet," Vivian said as she continued to look forward into a tank of sharks and other smaller fish. "We're like them. Ghostly, living in the shadows."

Kyrie was briefly distracted by large fluorescent jellyfish languidly swimming in a tank behind them, but she quickly directed her attention to the woman, seated on the bench. The woman who had betrayed her best friend.

"Predatory," Sherlock added.

"Well, it depends which side you're on. Also, we have to keep moving or _we_ die."

Kyrie thought what a weird thing that was for Vivian to say. After all, she'd been nothing more than a secretary, not an actual agent.

"Nice location for the final act. Couldn't have chosen it better myself. But then I never _could_ resist a touch of the dramatic."

Kyrie's lips turned up in a bit of a nervous smile at this correct assessment of himself.

"I just come here to look at the fish," Vivian stated. She stood up and took a few steps closer to the tank. She briefly gazed into the waters and what lurked beneath them, before she turned around to face them, her handbag hanging from her elbow. Kyrie's eyes were instantly drawn to it.

"I see you invited your wife to join you."

"It was about that time," Sherlock stated. "Plus, your own actions somewhat made you a person of interest to her."

Vivian looked Kyrie up and down with her beady little eyes. The expression in her eyes made Kyrie feel uncomfortable, as if she'd been weighed on the scales and been found wanting. She gulped.

"I wondered, that day..." Vivian said, her eyes still fixed on Kyrie. "... what drew her to you? Your marriage wasn't exactly one based on mutual love and trust. I'm familiar with the details. Yet, that has changed, hasn't it? I wonder why."

She gestured at Kyrie's appearance. "She's not that striking, yet... she managed to become one man's obsession and another man's object of affection."

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," Sherlock told her, his voice carrying a bit of a warning edge. "You, however, are in no position to pass judgement over my wife."

Kyrie was grateful he'd just put the woman in her place. She had no illusions of being a great beauty, but having her appeal to Sherlock questioned in such a rude way, was less than pleasant.

"Ah, yes," Vivian said. "I always knew this would happen one day. It's like that old story."

"I really am a very busy man. Would you mind cutting to the chase?" Sherlock said, still sounding quite annoyed with her. He was acting as if Vivian had just insulted _him_ personally and not Kyrie.

"You're very sure of yourself, aren't you?" Vivian stated, her eyes now drifting over Sherlock.

"With _very_ good reason," Kyrie bit out.

"There was once a merchant in a famous market in Baghdad." Vivian began to tell them.

Sherlock closed his eyes and lowered his head a little. "I really have never liked this story," he said quietly. Kyrie wasn't sure if he was telling her this, or Vivian.

"I'm just like the merchant in the story. I thought I could outrun the inevitable. I've always been looking over my shoulder; always expecting to see the grim figure of..."

"... Death."

Kyrie looked up when she saw Mary come into the room, stopping right at Kyrie's side, just a couple of feet away from her.

"Hello, Mary," Sherlock greeted her, keeping his eyes fixed on Vivian.

"Hey, you two," Mary said, flashing a brief smile at Kyrie. Kyrie returned a wobbly smile of her own.

"John?" Sherlock inquired.

"On his way."

He nodded. "Let me introduce _Amo_."

Mary stared at Vivian. " _You_ were Amo?" she asked, shock and surprise not only evident in her voice, but etched in her face as well. "You were the person on the phone that time?"

"Using AGRA as her private assassination unit," Sherlock averred.

"Why did you betray us?" Mary demanded to know.

"Why does anyone do anything?" Vivian replied flippantly.

"Oh, let me guess. Selling secrets?" Sherlock said, his voice nonchalant.

"Well, it would be churlish to refuse. Worked very well for a few years. I bought a nice cottage in Cornwall on the back of it. But the ambassador in Tbilisi found out. I thought I'd had it."

Kyrie's mouth dropped open. How casually this woman was talking about treason! As if she'd done nothing else but offering someone a home made pie.

"Then she was taken hostage in that coup," Vivian said with a chuckle as if she found it all very amusing. "I couldn't believe my luck! That bought me a little time."

"But then you found out your boss had sent AGRA in."

"Very handy," Vivian agreed readily. "They were always _such_ reliable killers."

Kyrie paled at this woman's callous attitude, talking about dismissing human life as easily as dismissing a rotten apple. She gulped, knowing she'd never met someone which such disregard for life. Accept maybe Gerulf.

"What you didn't know, Mary, was that this one also tipped off the hostage-takers."

Mary took a step forward to turn and stare at him.

Vivian took her seat on the bench again, resting her handbag on her lap. Again, Kyrie's attention was drawn to it.

"Lady Smallwood gave the order, but I sent another one to the terrorists with a nice little clue about her code name should anyone have an enquiring mind. Seemed to do the trick."

"And you thought your troubles were over," Mary growled, her voice low.

"I was _tired_. Tired of the mess of it all." She sighed. "I just wanted some peace, some clarity. The hostages were killed, AGRA too..." She looked across to Mary. "... or so I thought. My secret was safe. But apparently not. Just a little peace. That's all _you_ wanted too, wasn't it? A family, home. Really, I understand."

Kyrie felt nauseated. That woman had been _relieved_ to know, or believe, that the hostages had been killed along with the four people who made up AGRA. She had ordered the death of people and had quietly lived her life, not losing any sleep over her actions, apart of her fear of being found out.

Vivian lifted her handbag as if she was about to stand, but rested one hand on the open top of it. It was then that Kyrie realised. This was a woman who'd ordered deaths with no more guilt one'd feel when swatting a fly. She would not have come... unprepared.

"Sherlock..." she said, but Sherlock's gaze was fixed on Vivian. Kyrie could feel her stomach coiling into a knot. She knew that Vivian would not go down without a fight. She would gladly murder any one of them, just to have the last laugh.

"So, just let me get out of here, right? Let me just walk away. I'll vanish. I'll go forever. What d'you say?" Her eyes were hopeful and anxious at the same time.

Mary exploded in furious anger. "After what you did?!" She lunged forward.

"Mary, no!" Sherlock cried out and moved to follow her. Kyrie closed her eyes when Vivian stood up, pulling a pistol from her infernal handbag in one fluid motion, aiming it at Mary, who instantly stopped and backed away to Sherlock's other side.

"Okay," Mary acquiesced, moving closer to him.

The moment Mary was standing next to Sherlock, Vivian stopped pointing her gun at her and briefly looked at it. "I was never a field agent. I always thought I'd be rather good."

Mary scoffed at her comment.

"Well, you handled the operation in Tbilisi very well," Sherlock said.

"Thanks," Vivian said, looking rather pleased with herself.

"... for a secretary," he then added.

"What?" she asked, still looking pleased as if her facial muscles had not yet caught up with the fact that Sherlock was about to tear her down.

Kyrie may not have seen him out on a case very often, she had often enough seen him deduce unsavoury clients in the comfort of their flat. By now, she knew the tell-tale signs when he was about to rip someone a new one.

"Can't have been easy all those years, sitting in the back keeping your mouth shut when you knew you were cleverer than most of the people in the room," Sherlock told her, his voice soft but icy. Kyrie didn't need to look at his face, to know the ferocity of his glare he was fixing her with.

"I didn't do this out of jealousy!" Vivian spluttered.

"No? Same old drudge, day in, day out, never getting out there where all the excitement was. Just back to your little flat on Wigmore Street."

The tone in his voice conveyed all of the disdain he felt for her.

Vivian opened and closed her mouth at him in astonishment in a very unflattering way. No wonder Sherlock and Mycroft considered all the people around them to be goldfish.

"They've taken up the pavement outside the Post Office there. The local clay on your shoes is very distinctive. Yes, your _little_ flat."

Kyrie looked down and for the first time she noticed the dusty smudges on the toes of her shoes. Something she knew Sherlock had observed within seconds of meeting her.

"How do you know?" Vivian asked him, inviting him to dig her grave deeper, for Sherlock never turned down a moment in which he could shine and show off his intellect.

"Well, on your salary it would have to be modest and you spent all the money on that cottage, didn't you, and what are you, widowed or divorced?" He began his explanation, increasing the speed of his speech with every word he spewed.

"Wedding ring's at least thirty years old and you've moved it to another finger. That means you're sentimentally attached to it but you're not still married. I favour widowed, given the number of cats you share your life with."

"Sherlock..." Mary said, giving him a warning look.

"Two Burmese and a tortoiseshell, judging by the cat hairs on your cardigan. A divorcee's more likely to look for a new partner; a widow to fill the void left by her dead husband."

"Sherlock, don't," Mary warned.

But Sherlock's voice merely rose as he was getting fully into his stride. Kyrie's eyes were fixed on Vivian.

"Pets do that, or so I'm told, and there's clearly no-one new in your life, otherwise you wouldn't be spending your Friday nights in an aquarium. That probably accounts for the drink problem, too. The slight tremor in your hand... the red wine stain ghosting your top lip. So _yes_. I say jealousy _was_ your motive after all – to prove how good you are..."

Kyrie blinked, hearing all the facts he rattled off, all the things he'd seen... no _observed_... things she'd never even noticed herself.

The hairs in her neck raised on end. Though Kyrie could hear the footsteps, she kept her gaze on Vivian.

Vivian looked up towards the entrance.

"... to make up for the inadequacies of your _little_ life." Sherlock finished his absolutely blistering deduction of the sadness and loneliness that constituted Vivian's existence.

Vivian still looked towards the entrance. There were more footsteps, but Kyrie's eyes still didn't leave the other woman.

"Well, Mrs Norbury. I must admit this is unexpected." Mycrofts voice suddenly cut through the room.

" _Vivian Norbury_ , who outsmarted them all," Sherlock said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "All except Sherlock Holmes."

Even Kyrie flinched hearing the scathing disdain in his voice. He took a step forward, so did Kyrie. So did Mary. So did who ever else were standing behind them.

Sherlock held out his left hand to her. "There's no way out," he said, his voice soft this time.

"So it would seem," she said, smiling a little. "You've seen right through me, Mr Holmes."

"It's what I do," he said cockily.

She tilted her head to one side. "Maybe I _can_ still surprise you."

Kyrie tensed when she saw Vivian swiftly bringing up her gun, aiming it right at Sherlock. She was _not_ losing her husband again.

"Come on," Greg's voice instantly said from behind them. " _Be_ sensible."

From the corner's of her eyes Kyrie noticed Sherlock raising his hands. She didn't dare to look over at him. She knew even he would now show signs of fear and she couldn't afford to lose her concentration now.

Vivian shook her head. "No, I don't think so."

The very moment Kyrie saw her pull the trigger, she jumped right in front of Sherlock, throwing her arms around his neck, like she had done years ago to catch a bullet that was never fired. This time a bullet was fired though and she cried out in pain when she felt a sharp pain burn through her under her right shoulder.

When she gasped for air, she instantly knew something was wrong. Kyrie noticed a vague sense of falling sideways and she heard Vivian say, "Surprise," somewhere behind her while Sherlock yelled. "Kyrie, no!"

Strange. She didn't hit the floor. When Kyrie blinked her eyes, she found herself looking up at him, as he supported her with his arm. He stared down at her, shock etched on his face.

"Sherlock! Hold her sideways, do it, now!"

Kyrie whimpered as a blinding stab of pain briefly robbed her of vision. When she opened her eyes, she was turned on her side and Sherlock cupped her face to be able to look at her. Kyrie gasped in pain when she felt something press against the wound in her back.

"Everything's fine. It's gonna be okay," Sherlock told her, but the panic in his voice betrayed him.

"Mycroft, get an ambulance!" Mary ordered him. "St Thomas is just a block away, if they are quick then... By God, use all the powers you have and make them get here like... right now! I'm not losing my best friend to this... bitch!"

Kyrie tried to laugh but even breathing seemed an impossible task at the moment. Oh, it burned!

"Shh, it's all right, it's all right," Sherlock told her, his voice breaking.

Suddenly hurried footsteps came skidding into the area. "Oh God!" John cried out. "Kyrie!"

"She jumped in front of the bullet, John," Mary told him. "I'm pretty sure her right lung is collapsing. I've been covering the wound so air won't get in, but she can't breathe properly and she already lost a lot of blood.

Kyrie felt as if someone was sticking red-hot pokers into her body. It hurt to breath and she wasn't getting a whole lot of air. She was scared and she was panicking.

"Kyrie? Kyrie?"

She blinked up and found Sherlock looking down at her. "Stay with me. Stay with me," he implored her, a look of utter shock and helplessness on his face.

"I thought I could just... catch a bullet and... get away with it," she rasped and wheezed, trying to smile. "Pretty... pretty dumb... huh?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "You were brave. So brave... braver then me," he choked out.

"I'm not... getting away with this, am I?" she sobbed.

"Ssh," Sherlock assured her. "You'll be fine. Just like last time."

"I had a great life," she said, biting through the excruciating pain she felt with every breath she took and every word she tried to say. "But you made it amazing."

The stabbing chest pain nearly robbed her of any sense she had left. Sherlock looked at her and tried to force a smile, but tears were filling his eyes.

"I fell in lo-love with y-you ever since you f-first kissed... me. John... John asked how it was, remember?"

"Yes," he croaked.

She tried to smile. "Pretty good...

"Ssh-ssh." He gently shushed her and stroked her cheek with his gloved hand.

"... first kiss."

Kyrie reached out her hand trying to reach his face, he dipped his head and clasped her hand to his cheek, then turned his face so his lips brushed against her hand. Though he made no sound, she could feel his short breaths hot against her skin. He was quietly sobbing into her hand.

"Mary? Whe-where's Mary? And John?"

"We're right here, darling," Mary answered from behind her. She was probably sitting right next to John.

"You two were my best friends. I'm so-sorry I won't get to see R-Rosie grow up.

Mary sobbed. "And I'm sorry... for shooting Sherlock that time. I'm so sorry."

"I know. It's-it's all right. I forgave you, remember?"

Mary sniffed. "Hang on, okay? The ambulance is coming and... you'll... you'll be fine."

John didn't say anything, but Kyrie could hear him sniffing behind her

Kyrie felt her eyes burning with tears. So much to say. So little time. One regret. She yelped with pain.

"Kyrie. Kyrie!" Sherlock cried out, his voice sounding alarmed.

She looked up at Sherlock, gasped against the pain as he tried to shush her again.

"Sherlock?" she asked, staring into her husband's eyes.

Kyrie sobbed. "You... You were everything to me."

Sherlock grimaced, baring his teeth and he briefly reared his head back, before lowering it down, his breath shuddering against his tears.

"I know... we never talked about... but with Rosie... I-I... so would have liked... Would you?" Kyrie screwed her eyes shut in anguish, realising they'd never have that together... Parenthood.

When Kyrie opened her eyes again, she saw how his tears were rolling freely and unhindered down his cheeks.

"We'll have ten, okay? Just... don't... don't..." his breath shuddered. "... leave me," he whispered.

Kyrie smiled at his words and instantly gasped in pain. She grimaced. "I- I'd have... settled for four."

Sherlock chuckled and sobbed at the same time. "Kyrie," he said softly. "We can still have that, okay? Please?"

"I- loved being... being Kyrie Holmes. Look afer Mycroft?" she whispered. "He won't admit it... but he's so alone. And it..." She cried out in pain. Air. She needed air! "... breaks my heart..." she gasped, struggling for breath.

He said nothing, but he nodded his head.

It felt as if someone opened a tap inside of her, and now life slowly drained away from her. The pain stopped. She felt sleepy. She knew she had to go. Just... one more thing.

"I- I love you," she whispered with her last bit of strength and energy. Her head lolled sideways and just as she drifted away, she thought she heard a soft whisper. "I love you too."

SSS

Sherlock stared down at her. He couldn't quite comprehend what had just happened. Kyrie. His Kyrie... she was gone. He pulled her body close to him, cradled her head and rest his chin on top of it. Something, something deep inside of him bubbled up, clawing its way out to escape. Sherlock clenched his teeth to keep it at bay, fearing he'd never be able to stop it once it ripped loose.

He tried. He fought. He lost. An animalistic howl erupted from his clenched teeth. He buried his head in his wife's neck and drew in a shuddering breath to howl again. And again.

She'd died, not knowing how much he loved her. Truly. Madly. Deeply. Why had he not told her sooner? Now, his words had come too late.

He looked up and saw Lestrade nearby. He raised his head from the appalling scene and looked across to his brother, who returned his gaze. Sherlock had never seen such a look of bereavement on Mycroft's face. He realised his brother too, in his own way, had deeply cared for her.

"Kyrie," he said in a tiny whisper.

Hot tears were pouring down his face, mixing with the fluids running from his nose and coming from his mouth with each shuddering breath. He couldn't even dignify his wife with a last kiss without making a fucking mess of it. He couldn't bear to slobber over her lips so he buried his face in her neck and silently cried.


	96. Lost

**A/N Okay, so my Inbox exploded with reviews and PM messages. Not that I mind that, I LOVE reviews and messages, but I do mind if my readers are getting upset. But, maybe I should let Kyrie jump in front of a bullet at the end of each chapter, since, apparently, that's what it takes to get her some extra TLC.**

 **I'm not even going to attempt to answer all of your reviews messages. I get it, you are shocked and I'm the most hated author right now (don't worry, that was just me being sarcastic). So here's the much craved update. Enjoy Sherlock's heart break (again, just being sarcastic). Now, be nice to your author and let me know what you think!**

SSS

Sherlock cradled Kyrie's body in his arms, gently holding her against him. He was rocking back and forth with her, groaning as if he was in physical pain. In fairness, he actually was in physical pain, because the unnatural sensation of his heart constricting violently was far from pleasant.

He tried to suppress more audible proof of his anguish by breathing harshly through gritted teeth. In between he pressed wet kisses against her skin while keeping his face hidden in her neck. She was still warm. Suddenly all the blood drained from his face when he felt it. A tiny flutter against the sensitive skin of his lips.

Sherlock stilled his rocking motions and stopped breathing for a moment, afraid that the slightest move or sound might prevent another one. He couldn't prevent a brief gasp however when he felt it again... a tiny little flutter of life.

Paramedics rushed in that exact moment. One glance a the scene in front of them and they wasted no time. The moment one of the paramedics placed his fingers against the pulse point in her neck, he confirmed what Sherlock had felt.

"Pulse! She has a pulse!"

"You need to do a needle decompression! Tension pneumothorax. " John instantly informed the paramedics.

The paramedic gave him a look but didn't argue. A large bore needle was quickly handed over. The paramedic rolled Kyrie on her back, her coat was quickly buttoned open and her dress swiftly cut out of the way, so a needle could be inserted between her ribs. The paramedic flipped some sort of tap and Sherlock could hear air escaping from it. A breathing mask was placed over Kyrie's face and the paramedics started IV's to give pain killers and other fluids. Mary told him that was to keep blood pressure up.

When Kyrie was carefully moved onto a wheeled stretcher, Sherlock noticed that his brother and Lestrade had left. Probably to put Vivian Norbury in custody. He stumbled to his feet and followed the paramedics out to where the ambulance was waiting.

The roles were reversed this time and Sherlock didn't like it one bit. It was just a short drive to St Thomas hospital. Good thing, because the moment they wheeled her out, she was crashing and suffered a cardiac arrest. Now the doctors had a collapsed lung _and_ a failing heart to contend with.

Kyrie was rushed into the operating theatre and all Sherlock could do was stare and wait.

SSS

Sherlock was sitting in one of the chairs in a waiting room. Where the previous time he'd simply refused to sit down, his legs now lacked the strength to keep his body upright. He was still waiting for any information on Kyrie's condition.

He held his face buried in his hands. His head was killing him; it felt as if his mind was fracturing and splintering; his Mind Palace being torn down.

The blue door. The blue door had cracked and his mind flooded with strange images. Felt like memories. Couldn't be memories though. He was pretty sure he'd never...

He groaned into his hands. There was singing. The distant sound of a young child... a little girl... she was singing. Another child, a boy, skipping away through the shallows on a beach. He was wearing red trousers rolled up to the knees... a yellow jumper... yellow plimsolls... sporting a dark blue pirate's hat on his head.

Redbeard. Readbeard was there too. Or a dog that looked like Redbeard. Purple bandana tied around his neck. Watching the boy. The image changed and Redbeard was gone. Another boy running along the pebble beach, wearing a pair of red Wellington boots. While the girl was singing, the pirate boy trotted away alongside a stream, followed by the other boy in his red wellies, blue jeans and checked shirt. _"I that am lost. Oh, who will find me. Deep down below... the old beech tree?"_

When he felt he hand on his shoulder, Sherlock started nearly violent.

"Crap, Sherlock!" John hissed.

"Are you okay?" Mary asked him. "Sorry we had to leave you, but... we had to inform Molly. You know... Rosie."

Sherlock blandly nodded his head. He groaned at the motion. At the moment, he would not object to some maniac running over to him and lobbing his head off with an axe.

"Is there news?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

That moment, a doctor approached them.

"Mr Holmes?"

It took some effort, but Sherlock managed to raise his head to look at the woman.

"Your wife has been transferred to the Critical Care Unit in the East Wing. We were... able to stabilise her. She had a cardiac arrest due to blood loss and hypoxia, but spontaneous circulation returned. We also had to insert a chest tube, to let air and blood out. Since the cardiac arrest didn't last long, we are fairly positive that ischemic brain injury did not occur."

"I sense a 'but' coming..." Sherlock said with a gravelly voice. It surprised him he could manage any volume above a whisper. He would ask John later to dumb it all down for him. Medical jargon was not stored anywhere on his hard drive, he was pretty sure of that. Also, his hard drive wasn't functioning properly at the moment.

"Yes," the doctor said, sounding a bit hesitant. "Mr Holmes, people who suffered a cardiac arrest, they don't always regain consciousness immediately after return of spontaneous circulation. Meaning, your wife may remain in a coma for hours or weeks... or even be in a persistent vegetative state. I'm sorry, I can give you no clearer prognosis."

"Can I see her?" he asked.

The doctor nodded at him. "Just make it brief. We'll take good care of her and keep you informed, I promise. Visiting, for now, will be restricted to close family and friends only though." She glanced at John and Mary.

"They are both," Sherlock stated simply. "My parents will want to come over and... my brother."

"Very well," the doctor said. "Follow me, only you for now, please. And make sure your phone is turned off before visiting your wife on the unit."

The doctor led Sherlock to the East Wing, to the Critical Care Unit where Kyrie was lying.

Before she opened the door, she held up her hand. "Keep in mind that no more than two visitors are allowed at the bedside at any one time. You can visit whenever you want, but... if your wife needs to receive care, you will be asked to wait. I recommend visiting in the afternoon or evening as the unit tends to be less busy then. Oh, one more thing... no real flowers on this unit... Infection control."

The moment Sherlock stepped inside and looked upon the frail form of Kyrie lying there, again, fighting for her life, a deep hatred and self-loathing settled within him. He was the one who'd put her here. He was the reason she was lying in this bed with monitoring leads and equipment put on her.

Because of him, the various staff would have to closely watch her heart rhythm, blood pressure and oxygen level in her blood.

Because of him she was again hooked up to a ventilator via an endotracheal tube.

Because he'd been standing there, frozen on the spot, staring and imagining the bullet inching closer to his heart. Until Kyrie had jumped right in front of him to catch it.

" _I love you,"_ she'd whispered to him with the last bit of strength she'd possessed. He didn't deserve her love. He didn't deserve _her_. He'd proven that time and time again. This was not something he could make right again by writing a song. He hadn't even finished the song last time.

Bile rose in his throat, he swallowed convulsively and he clenched and unclenched his fingers... again and again. He hadn't even bothered to finish her song and she hadn't pressed him for it. Because she wasn't like that. He slowly scraped his seat back and just as slowly he rose to his feet. He did not even deserve to be in her presence.

He lowered his head as he walked to the door. He looked back, allowing himself one more look at his wife. He did not touch her. He did not kiss her. He had done nothing to earn that right.

SSS

Sherlock was sitting his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. He was tired. Everyone kept needling him to visit the hospital. Be with his wife. A wife he'd nearly gotten killed.

Amazing, he'd toyed with his own life so many times with such disregard. He'd endangered John's life, his own, Mary's even... so many times without even batting an eye.

" _Will it be dangerous?"_ Kyrie had asked him.

And he had shrugged his shoulders. _"She's an elderly woman."_

He had _shrugged_ his fucking shoulders!

His most _brilliant_ action that evening though, had to be when he'd just kept yammering on, completely out of control, thoroughly insulting an angry woman in front of him... who was holding _a gun_. It made him wonder. What if...at its roots, his 'gift' was, in reality, just an aspect of a deep seated mental illness?

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson was sitting in John's chair, holding a paper tissue to her mouth. "Are you going to see John and Mary?"

"No."

"You can't keep them away forever."

"Yes... I can."

She sniffed. "But why? Why won't you see them? They are your friends! You should have the support of friends right now. While... while..."

"You can just say it, you know," he said harshly. "While Kyrie is still in the hospital. Still in a coma. Unlikely to... ever wake up. Because I COULDN'T KEEP MY DAMN MOUTH SHUT!" he yelled while he reached out his left hand and viciously flung the small table near his armhair through the room. It crashed against the wall next to the kitchen doors. He didn't care when the elderly woman flinched at his outburst.

" _It's been four weeks. Your wife is now classified as being in a persistent vegetative state. She will soon receive physical therapy to prevent long-term muscle damage. Nurses will also move your wife periodically to prevent bedsores. It's... been reported, in some cases, that music is beneficial, so we will try music therapy as well. But, I am sorry to have to inform you, Mr Holmes... There's a good chance your wife will never wake up."_

It was the last time he'd went to see Kyrie. Next to a small little vase with horrendous fake flowers, Sherlock had gently left her an envelope. An envelope with contents she'd never see.

He'd felt she should have it anyway, for inside was a musical sheet. The title, in elegant letters, read: 'Kyrie's Song'.

He drew in a shuddering breath. "John and Mary... All they will do is say how it wasn't my fault. Offer me meaningless platitudes that 'all will be well'," he said bitingly. "All will _not_ be well. Not as long..." his voice trailed off and he quickly rose to his feet.

"Just going to, um..." He looked around. He needed to find something to appear busy. His mind protested against performing even such a simple task. His eyes settled on a small pile of letters next to his open laptop on the dining table. "... look through these things. There might be a case."

"A case?" Mrs Hudson asked, sounding astounded.

Sherlock sat down at the table and looked at his laptop.

"Oooh. You're not up to it, are you?"

His head dropped a little. No, he wasn't up to it. But he wasn't going to tell her that. "Work is the best antidote to sorrow, Mrs Hudson," he said as if he were stating a fact. Stupid fact. It wasn't even true. Even now, he could feel his eyes burn and his mind wouldn't give him a moment's rest.

"Yes, yes, I expect you're right," she said, though not sounding convinced. She started to get out of the chair. "I'll make some tea, shall I?"

"Mrs Hudson?" he asked, before he even realised he was going to call her.

She remained seated. "Yes, Sherlock?"

He blinked several times and half-glanced in her direction, but then continued to look at his laptop. "If you ever think I'm becoming a bit..."

He paused and swallowed. How deep he'd fallen. How low he'd sunk. "... full of myself, cocky or... over-confident..." He stopped again and suddenly turned around in his seat to face her.

"Yes?"

"... would you just say the word 'Norbury' to me, would you?"

"Norbury," she repeated him.

"Just that." Sherlock paused for a moment and he lowered his gaze. It was time he learned some humility. He gave her a pleading look. "I'd be very grateful."

She nodded at him. The way she looked at him told him there was more she wanted to say.

"Yes?"

"Your parents, I saw them... earlier. They are very worried about you, you know?"

He furrowed his brows. He didn't want to talk about that. "They can worry about Kyrie. I'm fine."

"But you're not."

"I said... I'm fine!"

"This is not what Kyrie would want for you. You are letting her down, young man!" Mrs Hudson said in a low voice.

"Good!" he spat. "Maybe then she'll wake up and tell me to get my act together. Or yell at me. Be angry with me. Anything!"

Mrs Hudson hurried out the door with a sob and Sherlock made it a point to slam the door closed behind her.

SSS

Time... days passed and most of the time Sherlock just sat in his armchair. At the moment he had his elbows upon his parted knees, his head in his hands. On the table beside him was an empty bottle of whiskey. So far he'd not grabbed for... something stronger.

" _This is the last time, Sherlock, I really can't do this again."_

" _I know."_

He needed something stronger. He wanted to see her. Talk with her. Hear her voice. Why wasn't she haunting him, the way he apparently had haunted her?

"Where are you?" he groaned in anguish.

His phone chimed, alerting him he'd received a text. He ignored it.

His phone rang, several times. It rang incessantly. He ignored it.

"Sherlock!" Mary yelled and banged against the door. "Don't force us to break down the door!"

His lips twitched in a humourless smile. _No way to just let yourself in now!_ He'd barricaded the doors...

He ignored Mary.

"Sherlock! You fucking prick! Open the bloody door! I know you can hear us, so you can stop ignoring us."

John. Despite John's angry words, he ignored him too.

They wouldn't go. He closed his eyes and realised he had to tell them something. Something to assure him he was fine. Something to make them go away.

He hoisted himself to his feet and dragged himself to the door.

"John, Mary?" His voice croaked.

"Sherlock," Mary breathed on the other side of the door. "Open up, let us in. We just..."

"I'm fine," he lied. "I just... don't want to see anyone right now. Can you... give me some time?"

"How much time, Sherlock?" John demanded. "You've locked yourself away in your flat ever since the doctor gave you that prognosis. I haven't seen you in a week. No-one's seen you in a week. How much longer do you need?"

"As long as I need, John! Just leave me be. As I recall, you had no problems leaving... leaving Kyrie here, by herself. Just... do the same now."

"I was grieving you arsehole! So was she! We both thought you were dead! And I didn't have Mary back then. But Kyrie is alive! There's hope!"

"Then go to the hospital and sit at her bedside and hold her hand. See how much good your ' _hope_ ' will do then! Now piss off!"

After several more days, the texting stopped. The calling stopped. The banging on his door stopped. He was finally alone. Because alone protected him. He cried.

SSS

Sherlock was lying in bed, looking up at the ceiling. "Talk to me," he whispered. Of course, no answer came. His wife didn't show him the same courtesy of visiting him, like he had visited her. His hand fumbled in his pocket to grab his phone. His hand trembled when he punched in the phone number.

Sherlock hesitated, his thumb hovering over the 'call' button. Is this really what he wanted? No. What he wanted, was for Kyrie to open her eyes and get better. He wanted to hear her voice, feel her touch... he wanted to bury himself deep inside of her, lose himself inside of her. He wanted part of him to nestle deep and safely in her womb and grow. Another chance – a last chance – to finally get this right. _That's_ what he wanted. But that's what he couldn't have.

What he did have was pain as a constant companion and he hated it. He'd tried to numb himself with copious amounts of alcohol but it did not bring him the relief he sought. It just gave him an addled brain, but the pain remained.

He pressed 'call'.

Sherlock listened as his phone tried to make a connection. It went over once. Twice. Three times.

"Shezza."

His lips twitched in a humourless smile. "Get your stuff," he croaked. He closed his eyes. _"You are letting her down, young man!"_

"Get your stuff," he repeated himself. "And get over here. I need you to fix me something. Fix me something good."

He disconnected the call without waiting for an answer. With a sigh he dragged himself from bed to get himself a glass of water from the bathroom. He took one sip and poured the rest down the drain.

Sherlock looked up and stared into the mirror. The corners of his mouth turned down. His eyes sunken in. His skin so pale it was almost translucent. He'd not shaved in... Pfft... Who even cared? His hair was so greasy that it had a hard time to remain curly. Just a few half-hearted waves here and there.

He was waiting for Kyrie to show up and hand his ass over to him. She didn't and he didn't know how much longer he'd have to wait. Or how much longer he could wait. Not that long, he knew that. Not without... something... to ease the pain.

Sherlock shuffled back to bed. Billy would be here soon. He'd fix him with something. He hadn't thought further than that. He just needed something to numb the pain and heighten his thought processes. And a case. A good case he could lose himself in.

Hope... Who needed hope? Sherlock had Billy.


	97. I want tea, not coffee

**A/N Thank you, all of you, for leaving such awesome reviews and PM messages! Bit at a loss for words here with all the attention. I'm loving it!**

 **So, to explain my decisions... At first I did intend for Mary to jump in front of the bullet. She would have survived considering I still have plans for after the main episodes and I actually still have the pages saved on my hdd of what I had written so far. And it didn't feel right, for me. Then I realised, Mary never would have jumped in front of that bullet! She had shot Sherlock to keep her secret safe, she would not take a bullet for him making her baby girl a half-orphan.**

 **For me, it made much more sense to have Kyrie catch the bullet. That would result having Kyrie back, again, in a hospital which I wasn't too thrilled about. But, it gave me such a great opportunity to write Sherlock experiencing a loss like that, I just couldn't pass that up.**

 **Also, I started using 'picture' for digital pictures on phones and photographs for actually physical printed photographs. Just wanted to clarify why you see me switching between the two.**

 **Anyway, next chapter. Poor Sherlock is still not in a very good place.**

SSS

His mind was jumping all over the place; didn't seem to be able to settle on one specific thing. Sherlock squinted his eyes. What was he looking at again? His hands were holding a piece of paper. Ah, yes... the paper Faith had given him. The paper which had been folded in half. The paper with the sharp crease.

"Three years ago..." Faith said.

He looked up from his slumped position in his chair, his dark blue dressing gown covering the clothes he'd worn for several days now. Particularly the midnight blue shirt that Kyrie had bought him. The buttons were no longer straining though. In fact... it hung quite loosely around his frame.

Faith, wearing an ankle-length long-sleeved dark red dress, was standing looking out the right-hand window.

It was late in the evening and he hadn't bothered with drawing the curtains. Looking at her dress made him turn down the corners of his mouth. Even something as simple as a dress, merely served as a painful reminder of what he was missing. Whom he was missing.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and briefly closed his eyes. Though his mind was racing far ahead, his awareness blissfully sank back in a huge pile of fluffy cotton balls, until looking at the dress no longer caused his heart to lurch and twist in his chest.

Sherlock also ignored the mess he'd made of the room. Papers and files scattered everywhere. A pile of books on the table next to John's chair. John's stair that had become Kyrie's chair. Was it now John's chair again? He didn't know.

"... my father told me he wanted to kill someone. One word, Mr Holmes..." Faith said, continuing her story.

Sherlock folded the paper over and looked at the back of it, then straightened his fingers. They were trembling slightly.

 _You are letting her down, young man!"_

" _Good! Maybe then she'll wake up and tell me to get my act together. Or yell at me. Be angry with me. Anything!"_

He was still waiting.

"... and it changed my world forever."

Every day that Kyrie didn't wake up, was another day that diminished the chance of that ever happening.

Sherlock looked up at Faith as she clenched her hands over the top of her cane that she held in front of her. She was still facing the window.

"Just one word."

"What word?" he asked her automatically, though he didn't really care. He didn't really care about anything. He lowered the paper and he picked up his mobile phone.

"A name."

"What name?" He tried to focus on the screen of his phone; tried to force his trembling fingers to cooperate. When he looked at the letters his fingers had typed... he scrunched up his face in annoyance.  
K-Y-R. He deleted the letters and started again.

He could hear Faith walking across the room to where the 'client chair' was facing the fireplace, with her distinctive thud-step-thud-step tread. He'd lit the fire. Or Billy had. Or Mrs Hudson had... It wasn't important who'd lit the damn fire... it was lit.

"I can't remember," she told him, sitting down.

He looked up at her.

"I can't remember who my father wanted to kill..."

Faith looked down at her hands on top of her cane. "... and I don't know if he ever did it."

Sherlock looked back to his phone and sighed, looking at the picture he'd somehow managed to find on the internet.

"Well, you've changed. You no longer top up your tan and your roots are showing."

There was something else about the picture, but he couldn't quite grasp it. He shook his head and swallowed, staring at the picture of Faith and her father smiling into the camera. He realised... There were only a few photographs in existence of him and Kyrie together. The first was taken when she'd accidentally kissed him on his lips, after that conference... when he was wearing the deerstalker. The others were all taken at John and Mary's wedding.

He bet that Faith had plenty more pictures of her and her dad. Just like John and Mary had thousands of pointless pictures of them together. Looking happy, looking silly. All he had, all he would ever have... were just a few photographs. And in one of those photographs he was standing next to a radiant Kyrie with him looking like a stiff clod.

His reply came a bit more biting when he lowered the phone to look at her. "Letting yourself go?"

"Do _you_ ever look in the mirror and want to see someone else?" Faith retorted.

"Every day. Do you own an American car?"

"I'm sorry?"

He closed his eyes and waved his hand vaguely. "No, not American; left-hand drive, that's what I mean."

"No. Why-why do you ask?"

Sherlock blinked a few times and looked across to her. "Not sure, actually," he shrugged. "Probably just noticed something."

He snorted a bit when he saw chalk letters appears, reading 'SOMETHING'. To top it off, a squiggly line... no, a squiggly arrow, pointed to the bottom right of her skirt.

"What's funny?"

He blinked a couple of times and focused on the spot where he could see a straight dark line of dirt on the skirt.

"Sorry, it's just my mind." He then he grimaced and gestured angrily in front of him. The chalk dispersed and disappeared.

When Sherlock looked down at his hand as he held it out in front of him and saw how it was trembling. He angrily clenched it into a fist with a sharp snap, then stretched the fingers out again. They continued to tremble.

" _Such a disappointment... You're a very stupid little boy. Mummy and Daddy are very cross..."_

"Oh, shut up, you pompous arse," he muttered.

"Are you okay?" Faith asked him.

Sherlock was still holding out his shaking hand. "Oh, of _course_ you don't own a car. You don't _need_ one, do you, living in isolation, no human contact, no visitors."

As he spoke, he unfolded the piece of paper again and gave it a blurry look.

"Okay, how do you know that?" she asked, nervously fiddling with her necklace.

Sherlock brandished the paper. "It's all here, isn't it? Look."

He stood up and stumbled across the room toward her, showing her the paper. "Cost-cutting's clearly a priority for you. Look at the size of your kitchen, teeny-tiny."

He walked past her towards the right-hand window and briefly glanced outside, then turned back to her. "Must be a bit annoying when you're such a keen cook."

"I don't understand," Faith complained.

"Hang on a minute..." Sherlock turned back to the window. "... I was looking out of the window. Why was I doing that?" He stepped closer to peer outside, trying to make out anything through the rain pouring down.

"I don't know!" she said, sounding a bit exasperated. A bit like Kyrie...

No, not allowed to think of her. That would just bring back pain and he was feeling so... deliciously _numb_ right now.

"Me either. Must have had a reason."

He shook his head and turned around. "It'll come back to me."

Sherlock walked back across the room, folding the paper in half and sniffing it as he walked.

"Presumably you downsized when you... when you left your job..." He raised the paper to his mouth and bit into the edge of it... To taste it? He wasn't really sure at this point. "... and maybe when you ended your relationship."

Sherlock slumped heavily down into his chair. On the table beside him, a spoon and a used syringe rattled noisily on the sauce on which they were lying. Sherlock didn't even care that he had evidence of shooting himself up with drugs out in the open. It was bound to make _her_ angry.

She would not be able to resist telling him off and give him a good tongue lashing. That's what he hoped. You could even see the last dregs of brownish fluid in the syringe! He was particularly proud of that. It wasn't just a prop. It was a _real_ used syringe. A syringe _he_ himself had used.

"You can't know that."

Sherlock blinked at her. He'd briefly lost track of their conversation. Back now. "'Course I can. There wasn't anything physical going on, was there?" He held up the paper and ran his fingers along the fold. "Quite some time, in fact."

Of course, physical relationships were no longer a mystery to him, as he – Sherlock Holmes – was intimately familiar with having a physical relationship. God, he missed it. Not just... sex... Though yes, he missed that too... But mostly, those small little touches; the gentle press of her soft lips against his skin, a sweet caress, a tender placement of her hand, her fingers raking through his curls.

He briefly closed his eyes. For some reason, Kyrie was weirdly drawn to his hair. _Loved_ to run her fingers through it. Drawn to it like a bee to... ugh... whatever it was a bee was attracted to. Flower. Honey. Another bee. He snorted and sharply stopped running his fingers along the fold and fluttered the paper at her. "There, see? It's obvious."

Faith was clearly unaccustomed to his mad deduction skills. She became a bit upset. "You can't tell things like that from a piece of paper."

He waved his hand at her. "Think I just did, didn't I." He nodded. "I'm sure that was me." He sniffed.

"How?"

"Dunno," he said, his voice soft. He gestured vaguely. "Just sort of... happens, really. Even now." He leaned forward and lowered his head. "It's... like a reflex. I can't stop it. Though at the moment I really wish I could..."

Because every fucking deduction he did, every little detail he noticed... it somehow managed to remind him of Kyrie. And that jerked him out of his blissful state of numbness, briefly overloading his senses with overwhelming grief, pain, shame, guilt and regret.

He breathed deeply and raised his head to look across to Faith. He then did a double-take and homed in on the wet patch on the top of her dress' right shoulder. No idea why he was suddenly drawn to that.

Sherlock looked away briefly and returned his gaze to her. His mind thought it would be funny to scribble the words DAMP in the air with imaginary chalk again, three times no less; one over each shoulder and one over the top of her hair.

He hauled himself to his feet, waved his hand at her twice and the two words over her shoulders dissipated. Faith flinched away from him, leaning back in the client chair.

There was still one DAMP left, so he swept his hand over the top of her head so that one too dissipated. The chalk dust floated away.

Faith looked up at him; she seemed a bit nervous, as he leaned in, reached out and touched his fingers to her right shoulder.

"Coat," he murmured, then turned around and walked towards the fireplace.

"I don't _have_ a coat."

He walked round the other side of John's slash Kyrie's chair... or should he think of it as Kyrie's slash John's chair? Sherlock shook his head to get rid of the random thought and headed in the direction of the kitchen.

"Yeah, that's what I just noticed. I wonder why?"

One of the closed kitchen doors creaked open and Billy peered at him through the gap.

"Who you talkin' to?" he demanded.

"Piss off."

Sherlock pushed the door closed and turned away.

"So, what do you think?"

"Of what?" he asked absent-mindedly. He'd already concluded this 'Faith' was of no interest to him. She'd failed to present him with a case he could sink his teeth in. And that's what he needed... to keep his mind from... wandering.

"My case."

"Oh, it's way too weird for me," he said promptly. "Go to the police. They're really excellent at dealing with this complicated sort of stuff. Tell them I sent you, that ought to get a reaction."

He picked up Faith's large handbag from John's chair. "Night-night."

Sherlock then non-committally tossed the handbag towards her, then watched in interest as the bag suddenly flew across the room in slow motion. Fascinating... Just as Faith raised her hands to catch it, but before she actually could... time seemed to slow down even further. Ah, his mind had picked up on something! But what...?

He frowned and headed towards the handbag that now seemed to hang suspended in the air. He reached down and put his hand underneath it. His mind instantly conjured up a chalk letter 'g' underneath it and a zero in front of the 'g'.

Sherlock lifted his hand and touched the underside of the bag, weighing it merely by the brief memory of having hold it. The chalk number started to scroll up peaking at '1619' grams, before rolling back to '0 g'.

He shrugged his shoulders. No idea why that had suddenly seemed so important. He took his hand away again, giving 'frozen Faith' a brief look, then turned and walked back across the room, wiping out the chalk as he walked across in front of it.

The moment he was back in his starting position Faith catched her bag and clutched it to her chest. She rose to her feet and walked towards him as he slid open the kitchen doors. She called out at him as he stepped through them.

"Please." She pleaded with him.

He turned back.

"I have no-one else to turn to."

Sherlock gave her a brief look and just couldn't feign the slightest bit of interest for her plight. He was going through stuff himself. "Yes, but I'm very busy at the moment. I have to drink a cup of tea," he said softly.

He half closed the doors and went to the kitchen table. He licked his lips, hesitated just a moment, before he picked up a teacup holding two more syringes inside of it.

Momentarily distracted by the sound of liquid bubbling nearby, Sherlock warily eyed the contraption of pipes clamped together, a gas tank and a plastic drugs drip bag clipped to one pipe with a large clothes peg. Oh... Kyrie wouldn't like that one bit.

Sherlock looked up, hopefully, as if this desecration of her pristine kitchen might summon her to his side. Only Billy looked back at him though. "Is 'cup of tea' code?" he asked him.

Sherlock reached through the clear plastic tent that had been hung from the ceiling around the sink. He emptied the teacup and let the syringes fall onto the draining board.

"It's a cup of tea," he answered tonelessly.

"Because you might prefer some..."

Sherlock turned around to gave him a piercing look. Billy made air-quotes with the fingers of his right hand "... 'coffee'."

 _Oh, brilliant Billy!_

Walking back across the kitchen, Sherlock gave him a dark glare.

Faith was still standing in the living room, looking at him through the gap between the kitchen doors. "You're my last hope."

Sherlock closed his eyes. Now she was starting to grate on his nerves. He turned to her and took hold of the handles on both of the sliding doors. "Really? That's bad luck, isn't it? Goodnight. Go away."

He slid the doors closed and turned back to the work surface nearby, already deleting this unfortunate event from his faulty hard drive.

" _What's_ bad luck?" Billy wanted to know.

Sherlock sighed exasperated and leaned his hands on the work surface, lowering his head. "Stop talking. It makes me aware of your existence," he snapped. A shiver ran down his spine when he realised his little plan wasn't working. None of it was working.

He was still in pain, even through the numbness. Kyrie wasn't coming. His broken Mind Palace refused to bring forth an acceptable image of her he could pretend to talk to. It refused to bring forth an image of her... period.

All he had was ache and an addled brain, trying to keep up with his thought processes that raced down the tracks at an ever accelerating pace with each cold needle he plunged into his vein.

" _I am sorry to have to inform you, Mr Holmes... There's a good chance your wife will never wake up."_

He shuddered and closed his eyes. When would this... crippling pain stop?

"I always 'ave bad luck. It's congenital," Billy said.

Sherlock suddenly raised his head. His 'deleting process' had stopped with the hand bag. "Handbag," he said.

"That's not rude," Billy told him. "Congenital – it just means..."

A cold feeling settled inside Sherlock's stomach now he finally understood what his mind had tried to tell him earlier. The weight of the handbag. The absence of a coat. The rain. He'd already failed his wife. Would he now fail this young woman too? The answer was simple. No. He couldn't.

He slid open the doors. "Handbag!" he yelled. But Faith had already left. Sherlock stumbled to the door, his feet not cooperating because he wanted to run faster than he currently was able to.

He made it to the stairs and he yelled, "Stop. Wait!" as he half-hurried and half-fell down the stairs, his right hand bracing against the wall to keep himself from toppling over. Sherlock stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked at her wide-eyed.

Faith had just opened the front door, but she'd stopped and turned around, and now looked at him curiously. Outside torrential rain was pouring down.

"Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it, do you hear me?" he said, urgently, his voice trembling.

She stared at him, looking confused. He pointed at her. "Off it," he ordered her sternly, glaring at her and gesticulating his hand to emphasise the words. " _Off_ it."

"Sorry?" Faith said and she limped back towards him. "What? What are you talking about?"

 _Sure, try to feign ignorance! Didn't your daddy tell you that won't work with Sherlock Holmes?_ Even when he was off his tits on drugs he was still smarter than the lot of them.

He pointed down towards the hem of her dress. "Your skirt."

"My skirt?" She parroted him.

"Look at the hem of it!" he told her, his voice urgent. "That's what I noticed. I'm..." He sobbed and briefly put his hand to his face. "Sorry, I'm still catching up with my brain. It's terribly fast."

He pointed to the bottom of her dress again and took a step closer to her, still bracing himself on the wall with the fingertips of his other hand. "Those markings. Do you see them?"

Faith looked down.

"You only get marks like that by trapping the hem of your skirt in a car door but they're on the left-hand side, so you weren't driving. You were in the passenger seat."

"I came in a taxi," she retorted.

He shook his head trying to get his befuddled brain to cooperate, to catch up with the deductions he'd already made earlier. "There _is_ no taxi waiting in the street outside. That's what I checked when I went to the window. And you've got all the way to the door and not made any move to phone for one, and _look_ at you. You didn't even bring a coat – in this rain?"

Sherlock's voice broke a bit, remembering who else had run out of this door, years ago, without a coat. Someone who, two years after that, had rushed out again, also without a coat... to try and stop him from jumping off a roof. So many things... No, everything. _Everywhere_ he looked, _everywhere_ he turned... there was _always_ something to remind him of _her_ and what he'd lost.

"Now, well, that might mean nothing, except for the angle of the scars on your left forearm. You know, under that sleeve that you keep pulling down."

Faith looked down and instinctively reached across to pull her left sleeve down. She looked up at him; her voice trembled. "Y-you never saw them."

"No, I didn't, so thank you for confirming my hypothesis. Don't really need to check that the angle's consistent with self-harm, do I?" he asked while reaching towards her.

She flinched back. "No."

"Then you can keep your scars. I want to see your handbag."

"Why?"

"It's too heavy. You said I was your last hope and now you're going out into the night with no plan on how you're getting home... and a gun," he told her, his voice gravelly.

She lowered her head. Sherlock focussed in on her walking cane... Black, with a white band across the top of the handle and some curly patterning up its length. He nodded and sniffed sharply. He briefly remembered John walking away from the house in Lauriston Gardens. The 'Study in Pink' case. He too had been leaning on his cane.

He shook the memory away and scrunched up his face. No, no point in conjuring memories of John. John would only tell him how it wasn't his fault; how he shouldn't blame himself. But he needed it. He needed at least the pain of being responsible for... possibly his wife's death. Because that's what he deserved. Not companionship and comforting.

"Chips," he suddenly said.

"Chips?" Faith parroted him again.

Sherlock grabbed a coat from one of the coat hooks on the wall. He shuddered and sighed feeling the familiar heavy tweed quality of a burgundy coloured coat with a dainty sash. He swallowed hard as he handed it to her. She took it from his hand. He noticed she inhaled deeply to catch some of the lingering scent. Iris des Champs.

"You're suicidal. You're allowed chips, trust me. It's about the only perk," he told her, giving her a humourless smirk while taking off his dressing gown.

He hung it on a hook, before grabbing his greatcoat. Anthracite and Burgundy roaming the streets together once more. Though the Burgundy should have been worn by another woman.

Faith turned and walked out of the door. Sherlock closed his eyes and grimaced, bracing both hands against the wall.

"Sherlock?"

He didn't respond to Mrs Hudson calling after him. She came up the hall – probably heard him in the kitchen of her flat – as he straightened up to put on his coat.

"Are you going out?" she asked him, giving him a worried look.

He sighed at her in annoyance. All this worry and sympathy... It grated on his nerves like a grater trying to cut and scrape through solid steel. "I _think_ I remember the way," he told her, his voice biting. He pointed to the front door. "It's through there, isn't it?"

"Oh, you're in no state. _Look_ at you." She had a sad look on her face and she sounded as if she was going to burst into tears again.

"Yeah well, I've got a friend with me, so..." He turned on his heels and headed for the open door.

"What friend?" Mrs Hudson asked surprised.

"'Bye!"

Sherlock closed the door behind him and he looked up into the pouring rain. Standing on the doorstep, he wrapped his coat around him, then turned left and walked under the awning of Speedy's where Faith stood waiting for him.

"Come on," he told her flatly before heading off into the rain.


	98. Midnight Stroll

**A/N I know you all want to see a glimpse of Kyrie but... That will have to wait. This is basically Sherlock's journey through hell while she is in the hospital. And there are... reasons why she won't make an appearance until the end of the chapter. As your read these chapters... keep in mind what the title of this episode is.**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Thank you, thank you for your kind words. I really do appreciate it. It's basically the reason his 'Mind Palace' has collapsed and his 'harddrive' isn't functioning properly. Wanna give him a hug yet? ;-)**

 **Artemis7448 Nice theory, and... pretty close because John does in fact blame Sherlock for Kyrie being in the hospital again. But Sherlock going after Kyrie is purely out of self-loathing and trying to find a way to redeem himself for having slipped back to using drugs.**

 **DreamonAlina Sorry! Kyrie won't be back for a while. This is Sherlock's personal hell.**

 **EllemichelleP Thank you for disliking me a bit less. I'm afraid that you will dislike me more again now you know Kyrie won't be back for a while. But, at least Sherlock did visit her in the hospital this time. Quite frequently in fact (though I didn't write this). He even finished her song!**

 **Ironlace Thank you! I'm thrilled to get such positive responses about the changes I made!**

 **Thewickedprinces Glad you like the changed to TLD. I wasn't sure about the Mind Palace thing at first because it's so unlike Sherlock. But, since my Sherlock left BBC Sherlock far behind in the dust in terms of emotional growth, it just made sense.**

 **I hope you will all enjoy this chapter! Sherlock's little night out with Faith! Or Eurus!**

SSS

Sherlock treated Faith to some fish and chips. He even ate himself. Faith still had some chips left when he was already finished. He'd not eaten much. Sherlock then found them a nice secluded little spot where they could sit on a bench, somewhat shielded against the rain. A bus stop outside a church.

He was holding the piece of paper that Faith had given him. The rain was easing up. His brain wasn't. "You see the fold in the middle? For the first few months you kept this hidden, folded inside a book."

He looked at it closely. Beside him, Faith was eating from the carton of chips on her lap.

"Must have been a tightly packed shelf, going by the severity of the crease. So, obviously you were keeping it hidden from someone living in the same house at a level of intimacy where privacy could not be assumed. Conclusion: relationship."

He paused and wondered if Kyrie kept something hidden in one of her books. Had she been keeping secrets from him? He shook his head and smiled sadly. No, Kyrie was... like an open book to him. Such irony.

"Not any more, though." Sherlock pointed to the top of the opened piece of paper. "There's a pinprick at the top of the paper. For the past few months it's been on open display on a wall. Conclusion: relationship is over."

He briefly closed his eyes. One look at his flat, one might make the same conclusion about his own... relationship. He sniffed and pressed on, shoving the hurt aside. "The paper's been exposed to steam and a variety of cooking smells, so it must have been on display in the kitchen."

Sherlock lifted the paper to his nose and sniffed it. The faint smell of cinnamon made him nearly taste Kyrie's ginger nuts. He lowered the paper again. "Lots of different spices. You're suicidal, alone and strapped for cash, yet you're still cooking to impress. You're keen, then. The kitchen is the most public room in any house, but since any visitor could be expected to ask about a note like this, I have to assume you don't have any." He swallowed. "You've isolated yourself."

Just as he had done.

"Amazing," Faith said.

"I know," he replied softly, almost mournfully.

There was a brief pause. "I meant the chips."

A chuckle unexpectedly erupted from his throat. He looked at her in surprise as he found himself laughing a bit. Genuinely. An unexpected little gift from her to him this evening. He hadn't had reason to laugh at all these last couple of weeks.

He looked away again, his smile fading. "Hm," he hummed contemplatively. He raised his eyes skywards hearing the thrumming sound of an approaching helicopter. He rose to his feet and walked forwards as the helicopter came hovering into view. He smiled upwards. _Not conspicuous at all, Mycroft!_

He smirked at Faith. "Let's go for a walk."

Sherlock led her from street to street, seemingly aimlessly wandering about. Seemingly. There was nothing aimless about their little walk...

"How did you know my kitchen was tiny?" Faith asked him as they were strolling down a street. The rain had finally stopped, no need to hurry for shelter.

Sherlock showed her the paper. "Look at the fading pattern on the paper. It's not much but it's enough to know your kitchen window faces east. Now, kitchen noticeboards..."

He walked a few paces into the road, looking up towards the strings of lights strung across the street, and he drew a rectangle in the air. For him at least, it instantly turned into a noticeboard. He walked towards it. "By instinct we place them at eye level where there's natural light."

In his mind, he plucked one of the pins from the board and pinned the piece of paper to it. He smoothed the paper down and turned back to Faith who had a look of captive interest on her face.

"Now look: the sun's only struck the bottom two thirds..." He drew his hand horizontally across the paper. "... but the line is straight, so that means we know the paper is facing the window."

He turned and walked a few paces away from the board that only existed in his mind. Pointing upwards at about forty-five degrees, he drew another rectangle and it instantly shifted into a window. It was so neat to be able to do stuff like this. It was even neater when he was able to delve into his Mind Palace. He smiled wryly.

Sherlock turned and walked back to the noticeboard, which now had sunlight streaming onto it.

"But because the top section is unaffected..." He gestured to the paper that Faith couldn't possible even see, but he could, so he didn't care. "... we know the sunlight can only be entering the room at a steep angle."

He walked towards the window again, from which the sunlight was streaming in. "If the sunlight was able to penetrate the room when the sun was lower in the sky..."

Sherlock walked away from non-existent window towards the non-existent noticeboard... God, he must look like such a dolt right about now, walking from empty spot to empty spot. Ah well... he could see it, so he didn't care. It all made perfect sense for him.

"... then the paper would be equally faded top to bottom. But no. It only makes it when the sun is at its zenith, so I'm betting that you live in a narrow street on the ground floor. Now, if steeply angled sunlight manages to hit eye level on the wall opposite the window, then what do we know about the room?"

He walked to the non-existent window, took one side of it and pulled it towards the non-existent noticeboard. The sunlight moved up the noticeboard as the window approached it. Once the window was about ten feet from the board and the sunlight was hitting just on the faded part of the piece of paper, Sherlock stopped and let the window go. "The room's small."

When he looked around at her, he was expecting to see a bland look on Faith's face. Instead, she smiled at him. He raised his brows. She understood every word he'd just explained to her. Proof of intelligence then. How surprising.

Overhead, the helicopter had found them and soon they were bathing in the bright beam of light, coming from its spotlight. Faith looked up.

"Oh," Faith remarked.

Sherlock too looked up at the chopper.

"Big Brother is watching you!"

"Literally."

He wondered if Mycroft had figured out his little message yet.

Next, Sherlock took Faith along Regent Street towards Piccadilly Circus.

"Sex," Faith said suddenly.

Sherlock looked round to her in surprise. They were each carrying a can of energy drink.

"I'm sorry?" he asked her, not even slightly fazed at the casual mention of that particular activity. He sniffed and tried to get his mind to focus again.

"Sex. How did you know I wasn't... getting any?"

"It's all about the blood," he explained without missing a beat. He shoved the paper under her nose again and pointed at a bloody smudge.

"This one comes from the very first night. You can see the pen marks over it. I think you discovered that pain stimulated your memory, so you tried it again later. Since your lover failed to notice an increasing number of scars over a period of months, that tells the relationship was no longer intimate.

"How do you know he didn't notice?" she asked him.

"Oh, well, because he would have done something about it," he said.

"Would he?"

"Why wouldn't he? Unless he was a rubbish boyfriend."

Kyrie couldn't even get away with the slightest of bruises because of say... a too harsh bump against the corner of the kitchen table, without him noticing it.

"Well, that's interesting," Faith remarked.

"What is?" he asked

"The way you think."

"Superbly?" he offered, rather sarcastically.

"Sweetly," she corrected him.

"I'm not sweet. I'm just high."

Sherlock suddenly stopped and turned around when they reached Piccadilly Circus. "This way," he said.

"What? We just came that way."

"I know. It's a plan." He didn't elaborate, just wandered back the way they just came.

Faith followed behind him. "What plan?"

"Sending my brother a message. He's an annoying git who should really just leave me alone."

Faith didn't question him further; she just walked next to him across the southern Golden Jubilee Bridge beside Hungerford Bridge. He was holding her cane for her as she had her right arm linked through his left.

It felt... oddly comforting to be walking this way. Sometimes, when the lingering notes of Iris des Champs would hit his nose and he noticed the burgundy colour from the corner's of his eyes... he could pretend, just for a moment, that it was Kyrie who was hanging from his arm.

"Are we gonna walk all night?" Faith, not Kyrie, asked him. Faith's companionship still felt comforting though.

"Possibly. It's a long word."

"What is?"

"Bollocks."

Faith chuckled and he smiled round at her. By now, no doubt that Mycroft would have figured out that Sherlock had played a little game with him. Using the blind spots of CCTV camera's and the fact Mycroft would mostly have to track his phone, Sherlock had sent him a message. FUCK OFF. That done, he was now starting a new message.

SSS

Sherlock and Faith spent the entire night walking and talking. They walked past the Houses of Parliament and Trafalgar Square, the Millennium Bridge looking towards Southwark Bridge and the Shard.

The sun was just rising in the east and Sherlock and Faith were sitting on a bench on the South Bank not far from Hungerford Bridge. Facing the river, they each held a filled half baguette wrapped in a paper serviette. Many pigeons were pecking at the ground a few feet away, probably hoping for a treat.

"D'you know why I'm going to take your case? Because you made me laugh, I... I needed that so, thank you. Also, because of the one impossible thing you've said."

"You're welcome, I guess," she said hesitantly, "But... what impossible thing?"

"You said your life turned on one word," he explained.

"Yes, the name of the person my father wanted to kill," Faith said, her voice very precise.

"That's the impossible thing. Just that, right there."

"What's impossible?"

"Names aren't one word. They're always at least two. Sherlock Holmes; Kyrie Holmes... Faith Smith; Santa Claus; Winston Churchill; Napoleon Bonaparte. Actually... just 'Napoleon' would do."

"Or Elvis?"

"Well, I think we can rule both of them out as targets."

"Okay, I got it wrong, then. It wasn't only one word. It can't have been."

Sherlock tutted. "You remembered quite distinctly that your whole life turned on one word, so that happened, I don't doubt it, but how can that word be a name – a name you instantly recognised that tore your world apart?"

"Okay, well, how?"

"No idea. Yet." He drew in a deep breath. "But I don't work for free." He held out his hand towards her, palm upwards. She looked down at it for a moment, then looked up at him. "D'you take cash?" she quipped.

"Not _cash_ , no," he replied, his voice soft. He looked round at her to give her a pointed look. After a moment she reached down to her handbag sitting on the bench beside her, unzipped the top and took out a pistol, putting it into his hand.

Sherlock rose to his feet, stumbled forward on unsteady feet to the riverside railing, then pulled his arm back and hurled the pistol as far away from him as he could towards the river. It splashed into the water and disappeared from view. Sherlock half-turned towards Faith.

" _Taking your own life._ Interesting expression, isn't it?" His voice was soft. God, he was so tired! "Taking it from who? Oh, once it's over, it's not _you_ who'll miss it."

Resting one hand on the railing, he looked westwards along the river towards the London Aquarium.

He briefly remembered... A pistol firing. A gunshot echoing. Smoke rising from the end of the pistol. Kyrie jumping in front of him...

Unshed tears were burning in his eyes. He placed his other hand on the railing as well, as he continued to gaze along the river.

"Your own death is something that happens to everybody else, not to you," he said softly, as if he'd just come to realise this himself. "The people you leave behind, they are the ones who feel... robbed. _They_ are left to deal with the pain."

He lowered his head, trying to hide the tears that flowed from his eyes. He breathed harshly but it sounded more like a broken sob. "Your life is not your own," he said, his voice strained. "Keep your hands off it."

"Sounds to me you are personally familiar with... loss?"

He clenched his jaw. "My wife..." he said through gritted teeth. "... caught a bullet that was intended for me. _Me_! But she decided to jump in front of me and now I... _I_ am left behind."

Sherlock looked down; he was losing all sense of reality and stability. It even seemed as if he and the railing were suspended in mid-air, with no ground or river below them. His feet no longer touching anything.

He lifted his right hand and watched with detached curiosity at how badly it was shaking. His mind was crackling, trying to jolt his awareness to keep up. A brief flash. He saw the words on the paper. His mind tried to fill in the blank. Kill... not a name... what else? SOMEONE, his mind offered.

Sherlock closed his eyes and blew out a breath. He was close, he could feel it!

"You're not what I expected. You're..."

Again, the word SOMEONE crackled in front of his eyes. He groaned and slumped on top of the railings. He needed a fix! He stared down into the blank void beneath his feet.

"What... what am I?" he asked, breathlessly, anxiously.

"Nicer," she said.

The words on the paper flashed in front of his eyes again. "NEED TO KILL SOMEONE." He screwed up his eyes, shook his head to get rid of the vision while still clinging desperately to the railings.

"Than who?" he panted, breathing harshly.

The moment Faith replied... the moment she said, "Anyone," Sherlock screamed in agony.

Syringe. Cold needle piercing his skin. Numbness. Bliss. He closed his eyes as he slumped down onto the concrete in front of the railing. He groaned in pain and anguish. As he doubled over, he heard that little girl singing again. _"I that am lost. Oh, who will find me..."_

The pirate boy and a dog like Redbeard – maybe it _was_ Redbeard? – trotting through the shallows at a beach. The other boy in red wellies running towards them.

His head snapped up and he breathed heavily as he looked towards the bench.

"Sorry, I..." His eyes widened. He gasped. Faith was no longer sitting there. In her place, standing and looking down at him with a sad look on her face, was Kyrie. Finally!

He scrambled to his feet. "Kyrie!" he breathed, spittle flying from his mouth as he gasped her name. Sherlock stumbled towards her and tentatively reached out his hand, letting his fingers hover millimetres from her skin.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" she asked him, a look of infinite sadness in her eyes.

"I just... wanted to see you. Talk to you." He tried to smile at her. "I miss you."

She frowned at him. "Sherlock Holmes, get your act together! This is _not_ you. All emotions are abhorrent to you, remember? They are just a distraction. So, _don't_ let them be."

"Ah, but you were always the exception to the rule. The exception to _all_ of my rules."

Kyrie reached out her hand and, like him, she hovered mere millimetres from his face. He closed his eyes and leaned in. Her memory strong enough to conjure up the sensation of feeling her fingers lightly grazing him. He breathed out a broken sigh.

"Will you ever wake up and come back to me?" he whispered, his voice cracking.

"I'm in your head, Sherlock. I can't answer that for you. Because you don't know, so I don't know either."

He opened his eyes, wishing he could take her into his arms.

"Be the best version of _you_ that you can be, Sherlock. Do that, for me. Please. And get this bastard. Because you already know the answer. You just haven't caught up with your brain yet."

"I'm sorry," he groaned. "I just..."

"Ssh," she said. "Don't worry. The path you've taken so far doesn't matter. The path you will _now_ take, does."

He pressed his lips into a thin line, then let out a shuddering breath. "I love you," he whispered, feeling utterly helpless.

"Oh Sherlock, I know you do and I love you too, more than anything in this world. But it's nice to hear you say the words. Maybe tell me for real, someday?"

"Yes. Oh yes. Just... come back."

Kyrie smiled and leaned in closer. His eyes dropped closed just as her lips covered his. There was a brief moment he could actually taste her. Soft, sweet and fruity. He breathed out and opened his eyes. She was gone. So was Faith.

Sherlock straightened his coat and walked away.


	99. I Have a Plan

**A/N You will have notice my time skip is three months instead of three weeks. For reasons. I'm really sorry, but, apart from Mrs Hudson's POV at the end of this chapter, I'm switching to Omniscient POV for the next few chapters. Writing from someone's POV would give too much away. I apologise if my next chapters are therefore more boring to read because there are no inner thoughts. Things are different than the actual episode of course so I hope that will make up for it. Keep in mind the title of the episode guys!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 First of all, thank you. Second... can't say anything else. No spoilers!**

 **IronLace Aw! Though I don't like you sad, I'm proud about those tears! A story should be able to evoke emotion in a reader. Sadly, the next chapters are very much following the script. I wanted to skip a large portion but such a skip would just be too harsh. But don't worry... Plenty of emotion still on it's way!**

 **EllemichelleP Is that a good or a bad URGH? *looks nervous***

 **Artemis7448 I liked that parallel too. Thought of that immediately when writing this. Was a bit tempted to use her words, but they were Mary's and I had to write Kyrie. And Kyrie's different and yes, Sherlock knows her well enough to be able to imagine what she'd say.**

 **Jane S. Gold Thank you for letting me know how much you enjoy my story! As I said before, the next chapters will have less of emotional impact because I'm not really writing from anyone's POV. I hope it's still worth the read because of the changes I made to the narrative.**

 **Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter!**

 **SSS**

Sherlock was walking along the streets, making his way back home. He pulled his lips in a grim line. According to Kyrie he already knew the answer, well, according to himself. Fuck! He shouldn't have taken that last hit. He just knew it was going to mess him up good, just when what he really needed a clear head.

His own words echoed in his head.

" _You said your life turned on one word. A name can't be one word."_

He walked past some houses with white walls.

" _There's nothing_ _ **anyone**_ _in this world can do or say to make me or John doubt you."_ Kyrie's words rang through his head. Words she'd told him years ago. The night of their daring escape.

" _Anyone_."

He thought back to earlier this morning. To Faith, sitting on the bench, looking at him.

" _You're not what I expected._

" _What... what am I?"_

" _Nicer."_

" _Than who?"_

" _Anyone."_

Faith's and Kyrie's voice echoed through his head, repeating the word 'Anyone' over and over and over again. Like a broken record.

Sherlock slowly raised his head.

" _Get this bastard. Because you already know the answer. You just haven't caught up with your brain yet."_

He spun around and stared intensely down the road. He heard Culverton Smith's voice, Faith's father. Prominent entrepreneur and rich philanthropist. Ugly little toad. _"I have a situation..."_

His eyes wide, Sherlock started to walk down the road.

" _... that needs to be managed."_

Further along the narrow street, a white oval table had appeared in the middle of the road. Smith's six guests were sitting either side of it with drip stands beside them. Of course...! Smith had told them the one secret he couldn't keep to himself, he just had to confess. Making sure that no-one would remember by administering the drug TD12 drug to them. Using those drips.

Smith was sitting at the far end. Only the white table, Smith and his guests were in focus. Everything else, all the other street scenery around the table was fuzzy and out of focus.

As Sherlock slowly advanced on the table, Smith smiled and rose to his feet, walking towards him.

" _There's only one way that I can solve it."_

" _And what's that?"_ imaginative Faith asked.

Smith had passed the table and continued to walk towards Sherlock.

" _I need to kill someone."_

Sherlock stopped.

" _Who?"_ Faith asked her father.

"Who?" Sherlock asked.

Smith chuckled silently. " _Anyone_!" He started to laugh.

"Of course! You were right, Kyrie. I _did_ know the answer!" Sherlock muttered softly.

Smith continued to laugh, putting the back of one hand up to his mouth as if he'd just told a good joke.

"He doesn't want to kill one person... He wants to kill _anyone_." He stared at Smith, his eyes wide. No wonder Kyrie had called him a bastard. Well, _he_ had. Details... "He's a serial killer!"

Smith lowered is hand.

" _Anyone."_

"He could be."

" _Anyone._ "

"Why not? Why shouldn't he be?" He started to smile. His smile then dropped and he looked around, feeling a bit dazed. Smith and the table and Faith and the guests were suddenly gone.

A man walked past in front of him, giving him a disapproving look. Someone yelled angrily at him.

"Move!"

He blinked his eyes. When the world came back into focus, he discovered he'd wandered somewhere in the middle of the road. Cars had come to a halt in front of him, behind him and beside him. Some of them honking their horns.

The driver of the car in front of him opened his door and called out to him, sounding rather annoyed.

"Hey, you! What's the matter with you?"

" _Anyone_!" Smith's voice still taunted him, but Sherlock managed to home his vision in on the driver who'd gotten out of his car and was leaning an arm on the open door while looking at him, half-irritated, half-concerned.

"Do you know where you are? Are you drunk?"

Sherlock blinked.

"Shezza."

What?

Sherlock suddenly found himself looking up at Billy, right where the driver had been standing.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked him.

"What were _you_ doing in the middle of a bloody street?"

"You should be at Baker Street," Sherlock told him. His head twitched and he stumbled slightly.

"I __ _am_. So are you."

Sherlock blinked rapidly and took a better look around him. When he looked over his shoulder, a large backdrop just seemed to come into existence and rippled down behind him, replacing the scenery of the street with the wallpaper of the living room. The backdrop thumped down into place, straightening out, while Sherlock raised his head and stared around him, still in a daze.

"They found your address. They brought you here."

Confused, Sherlock turned and looked around the room. His living room.

"You've 'ad too much..." Billy admonished him. Sherlock turned back to him, bewildered and feeling utterly confused at what the hell was going on.

"... an' that's _me_ sayin' this."

Panic managed to get a grip on him, that usually happened when he couldn't keep his own mind under control. And right now his mind was absolutely, completely spinning OUT of control.

He flailed in panic and stumbled backwards, scrambled up onto the sofa and then even further. His back ought to crash into the wall but instead he landed flat on his back on the rug some distance in front of the sofa.

What?

He blinked his eyes. His mind suddenly flooded with images of Smith on TV.

What? WHAT?

Smith was looking bored as the audience applauds behind him. He pointed towards the camera.  
"Kill," he said impassively and smacked his hand down onto the big red button on the table in front of him. As if he was a judge in some freakish version of a TV competition show.

Sherlock struggled to turn over onto his side, but suddenly found himself back on his feet instead, staring around him, feeling as if he was losing every grasp he had on reality.

"Sherlock."

That was Billy's voice. Where was Billy?

Sherlock suddenly rolled onto his back again on the rug.

Another flash of Smith on TV, standing inside the door of a shop, looking out through the glass. A female assistant was standing at a cash register deeper in the shop. Smith reached up to a sign on the door and turned it around so that from the outside it read, 'Sorry. We're CLOSED'.

Sherlock blinked his eyes seeing the title in the bottom left of the screen, 'BUSYNESS KILLER', except the 'Y' was actually a pair of scissors. The word KILLER was blood red.

He felt disoriented, his head was pounding... his heart was racing.

Billy gave him a worried look. What was going on now? He suddenly elevated off the rug and started walking up the wall, as if no such thing as gravityexisted. He clumsily stepped over a large stack of magazines piled up against the wall, then he put his feet together and turned towards Billy.

" _Anyone_." Smith was mocking him.

He heard Kyrie's voice drown out Smith's mocking tone. " _Anyone_ ," she whispered.

Sherlock felt as if his mind was tearing itself apart. One moment he was explaining the case to Billy...

"They're always poor..."

The next moment he was horizontally walking up the wall again.

"... and lonely, and strange. But those are only the ones we _catch_ ," he said intensely, standing in front of the sofa, gesticulating his hands.

" _Who_ do we catch?" Billy asked, giving him a confused look.

"Serial killers."

His mind flooded with various images of Smith in a non-existing TV studio, laughing and pointing to something in front of him while the offscreen audience also laughed and whooped.

Sherlock was back on the wall, standing horizontally above the frosted glass window. He whirled around on the spot, his coat flaring out around him.

"What if you were rich and..."

He squeezed his eyes shut to block out another image of Smith in his tuxedo, again in a studio or theatre, smiling... clapping his hands. Sherlock felt his stomach turn every time his mind forced him to look at that monster. Smith made him feel physically ill.

"... _powerful_ and _necessary_."

Another image of Smith stabbed through his brain. He was standing outdoors, holding up and proudly pointing to his new fucking Order of the British Empire.

Sherlock stepped unsteadily downward from the wall, putting one tentative foot on the arm of the chair beside the sofa.

" _Anyone_." Smith, back in the street, put the back of his hand to his mouth as he giggled.

Horizontally, Sherlock reached across to put his hands on the wall behind the sofa.

"What if..."

He was now horizontally halfway up the wall behind the sofa, his arms spread wide, palms of his hands pressed against the wall to steady himself as he carefully shimmied along the part of the wall that jutted out a little into the room.

"... you had the compulsion to kill, and money? _What_ then?" Sherlock cried out.

Urgh! No! A brief flash of Smith, standing in front of the sofa... In his home! In his and Kyrie's HOME! Sherlock nearly gagged at the image of Smith standing there, mocking him. He was wearing a blue shirt and tie and had his arms folded as he smiled that unctuous smile of his, showing his crooked teeth.

He was standing on the right arm of the sofa, tilted sideways towards it at – he was pretty sure of it – an impossible angle. He toppled over and crashed down onto the sofa. All the time, Billy was watching him go with a look of shock. Was that real Billy? Imaginative Billy? He wasn't sure. And, as Sherlock's eyes closed and his body settled onto the cushions, he found he couldn't find the energy to care.

First, he needed to get this poison out of his system. Then he had two texts to send. He needed help.

SSS

TWO MONTHS LATER

Mrs Hudson slowly and nervously crept up the stairs towards the first floor, feeling more than a little apprehensive as she ascended. She could hear the overture of 'Le nozze di Figaro' blaring from upstairs.

She shook her head sadly when the music reminded her of the lovely sweet-tempered Kyrie. Such a tragedy...

Mrs Hudson anxiously clenched her hands on the bannisters. From the flat came a raucous of a variety of sounds... metal clanging, crashing noises, thumping, smashing, yelling... She could hear the angry cries of Sherlock rise above all other sounds.

A moment later Billy pelted down the stairs towards her.

"Wait!" Sherlock yelled from inside the flat.

Mrs Hudson whimpered a bit and cringed against the bannisters as Billy raced past her.

"I'm out of 'ere," he told her. When he reached the half-landing, he pointed back up the stairs.

"'e's lost it."

Mrs Hudson looked up hearing another one of Sherlock's angry yells. "Where is it?!"

Billy paused for a moment and then yelled in Mrs Hudson's ear. "'e's totally gone!"

She cringed and backed a step down at his outburst while Billy headed off down the stairs. Mrs Hudson blinked her eyes when she heard Sherlock upstairs let out a triumphant cry.

Mrs Hudson continued her slow nervous climb. When she reached the landing, she nervously glanced at the open kitchen door, which had a large knife stuck in it. She made her way to the living room door instead and slowly creaked it open, peeking her head around it.

She clasped her hand in front of her mouth when Sherlock suddenly came charging from the kitchen into the living room, wielding a long-muzzled pistol in his right hand. He was wearing a dark blue dressing gown over a black shirt and trousers.

Mrs Hudson could feel tears glistening in her eyes. He looked awful! He had at least a few days' worth of beard growth and his hair looked filthy and greasy. That manic look in his eyes as he ran across the living room nearly broke her already shattered heart.

Poor man... Her death had been so sudden and unexpected. She shook her head sadly. He'd taken her passing very badly. Mrs Hudson feared that losing Kyrie, about two months ago now, had finally driven Sherlock off the deep end.

Sherlock was shouting loudly and dramatically. "Once more unto the breach, dear friends..." He spun round in the middle of the room, pumping the pistol towards the ceiling. "... once more!"

She looked around the room and her mouth gaped open. All around the room there were countless photographs of Culverton Smith. They were stuck on the walls, scattered over every surface, attached with clothes pegs to a string across the room...

Sherlock suddenly hurled a book across the kitchen.

"Or close the wall up..." He leaped onto the sofa. "... with our English dead!"

There were lots more photographs of Smith randomly stuck on the wall behind the sofa. Sherlock turned around and headed back across the room.

"... set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide."

Mrs Hudson was barely able to shimmy inside when Sherlock suddenly turned and dramatically kicked the living room closed. He didn't even seem to notice her as he stormed across towards the fireplace, his dressing gown billowing behind him.

"Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit..." He snatched down a photo of Smith which was taped to the mirror. "... to his full height!"

Screwing up the photo, he looked down at it for a moment, then raised his head and brandished both hands either side of his head.

Mrs Hudson flinched when he started yelling at the top of his voice, his face filled with rage. "On, on, you noblest English..." He hurled the photo across the room. "... whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!"

Sherlock pointed the pistol towards the wall behind the sofa, taking the gun in both hands. Mrs Hudson jumped aside.

"And _you_ , good yeoman, whose limbs were made in England, show us _here_ the mettle of your pasture!"

She looked on, her mouth gaped open as she watched on as Sherlock headed into the kitchen.

"... which I doubt _not_ , for there is none of you so mean and base..." He gestured dramatically with both hands, his gaze manic and wild. "... that hath not noble lustre in your eyes!"

When Mrs Hudson looked around her, she noticed a printout of a newspaper or magazine article pinned to the door. She sobbed quietly when she noticed the heading. KYRIE HOLMES DIES: WIFE OF NET DETECTIVE SUCCUMBS TO HEARTFAILURE WHILE IN COMA

She shook her head and turned back to look at Sherlock who was still ranting and alternately pacing or twirling on the spot in the kitchen.

"I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, _straining_ upon the start!"

Stepping back into the living room he aimed the pistol towards the sofa wall and fired, narrowly missing Mrs Hudson who ducked sideways and pressed herself against the door to the kitchen. Sherlock fired four more times in quick succession, blowing holes in various photos of Smith.

When the music ended, Sherlock glared towards the wall.

He breathed heavily. "The game's afoot," he said, his voice deeply intense.

Mrs Hudson slowly stepped away from the door and gave Sherlock a sad look. This time, he noticed her.

"Oh, hello," he said calmly. He sniffed and blinked hard. "Can I have a cup of tea?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked into the kitchen.

She ushered him out into the living room and pushed back the plastic tent from around the sink so she could start to prepare some tea for Sherlock.

In the living room Sherlock was stumbling around, walking against the string with photographs, both of his hands pressed against his head. He still had the pistol in one hand.

"These pictures..." Mrs Hudson said, pouring tea from a teapot into a cup and saucer on the work surface. "... they're that man on the telly, aren't they?"

Sherlock frenetically turned back and forth but lowered his hands and turned to look at her.

"What pictures?" He breathed harshly and seemed confused.

"They're everywhere," she said, her voice cracking with nerves.

She put down the teapot and picked up the cup and saucer. Sherlock dramatically gestured around the room with both hands.

"Oh, _these_ pictures!" He gestured towards the fireplace with the pistol. "Oh, you can see them too." Mrs Hudson yelped when, for a second, he pointed the gun directly at her. "That's good."

He turned away and seemed confused by the many photographs around him. He screwed his eyes closed for a moment, and spun around as if he couldn't decide what photograph to settle his focus on.

Sherlock pulled in a shaky breath and put one clenched hand to his cheek; he turned away and continued looking at the photographs around the room, as if he was unsure about how they'd gotten there.

Mrs Hudson was just about to bring him his cuppa, when Sherlock started trembling and dramatically gestured either side of his head, pistol still clutched in his right hand. "Cup of tea!" he managed to say through gritted teeth, his voice frantic.

He suddenly spun around and rolled his eyes.

"Oh, for goodness' sakes!" he snapped at her.

Mrs Hudson froze and clutched the cup and saucer in both shaking hands as she stared at Sherlock in terror and slowly backed away.

He briskly walked towards her. "What's the _matter_ with you?"

She whimpered, making him only storm closer to her. He manically stared down at the tea and gestured with both hands again, mocking her. "Are you having an earthquake?!"

Mrs Hudson gasped and simply released her hold on the cup and saucer and they started to fall from her hand.

She looked on and watched in interest as the teacup and saucer dropped. Instinctively and in a flurry of motions, Sherlock reached forward to drop his pistol onto the kitchen table and then his hand continued its lightning fast downward motion as he bent his knees and managed to get his hand under the falling saucer.

He caught it and the tea splashed noisily in the cup, some of it spilling over the rim as its fall was halted.

Before Sherlock had a chance to straighten up, Mrs Hudson wasted no time and swiftly reached across to the table and picked up the gun by its muzzle with her right hand, pulling it towards her and reaching for the other end with her left.

As Sherlock started to come up again, spilling more tea over the rim of the cup, Mrs Hudson turned around.

His knees straightened; his hand shook, rattling the cup in the saucer even more. Mrs Hudson pointed the gun at him, cocking it, just as Sherlock straightened himself to his full length.

He started at the sight and stared at the gun, his hand still trembling.

"Right, then, mister. Now, I need your handcuffs. I happen to know there's a pair in the salad drawer." She shrugged. "I've borrowed them before."

Sherlock scrunched up his face at her.

"Oh, get over yourself. You're not my first smackhead, Sherlock Holmes. And you don't have to look so startled. I won't ask _why_ you had handcuffs hidden there in the first place," she told him sternly as he blinked profusely at her. "Now, we are going to go for a little drive..."


	100. The Meeting Was Today?

**A/N It is really really great to read all of your reviews and your theories! Keep it up! You'll notice a few changes in this chapter here and there. Let me know what you think!**

 **SSS**

"Tell me about your morning. Start from the beginning."

John stared at the woman in front of him. Mary seemed to be more interested in the bowl of apples perched on the wooden cabinet against the bit of wall underneath the high window sill.

"We woke up," John stated simply.

"How did you sleep?"

Their therapist spoke with a foreign accent. German perhaps. She was sitting in a chair a few feet away from them, as they were sitting in two identical low armchairs.

Dark blue floor-length curtains were tied back on either side of French windows at the rear of the room, looking out into the back garden. There was a jagged red rug on the floor between John, Mary and their therapist.

"Not good," Mary offered this time, looking up at the woman with her ash blonde shoulder-length hair, wearing glasses and holding a notebook on her lap.

"Because you are sad over your friend's passing? Bad dreams? Or perhaps... guilt?"

"Of course we are sad," John said, his voice a bit angry. "It was too sudden. Unexpected. All because..." He breathed harshly.

"He should have just kept his mouth shut," Mary murmured.

"You blame your friend for her death?" the therapist prodded.

John's head snapped up at her words and he gave her an intense look. "Sherlock Holmes? He's not our friend. Not any more."

"Isn't it possible he got... caught up in the moment? Were _you_ never caught up in a moment?"

"We never insulted someone holding a gun to the point they felt compelled to shoot, that's for sure," John said, his voice sounded flat.

"You lost a dear friend, your anger is understandable. In grief, it's sometimes easier to put blame with something else. Or... someone."

"Is it? Why?" Mary asked. " _Why_ is our anger understandable? Why does _everything_ have to be understandable? Why can't we _just_ be angry, or sad, or happy?"

"Because when an emotion becomes... too overbearing... It helps to know the reason behind it."

"We _know_ the reason behind it," John snapped. He gestured briefly, then lowered his hand onto the other one and tapped his index finger against it.

"That's not really _why_ we are angry though, aren't we, John?"

"Why are you angry then?" their therapist asked.

John let out a shuddering breath. "Because Sherlock Holmes is taking drugs, instead of talking to his best friends. _He's_ the one who shut us out, not the other way around. Sherlock Holmes... is no longer our friend because he doesn't _want_ friends."

"You blame yourself for him spiralling down to rock bottom. Our actions are our own. Our choices are our own. You are holding yourself to an unreasonable standard."

"No, we are failing to," Mary retorted.

"Is there anything you're not telling me?"

John bit his lip and Mary pressed hers together. They gave each other a brief look.

"No," they said simultaneously. They gave each other another look. John cleared his throat awkwardly.

The therapist gave them a small smile. "I won't press, we can save that for another time. So, Sherlock Holmes doesn't talk to you?"

Mary shook her head. "We haven't seen him. No-one's seen him for two months. He's locked himself away in his flat. God knows _what_ he's up to."

"Has he attempted to make contact with you?"

"No, _we_ have attempted to make contact with _him_." John reminded her.

"How can you be sure? He might have changed his mind and tried."

Mary chuckled wryly. "Trust me, if Sherlock Holmes wants to get in touch, that's not something you can fail to notice."

John sighed out a breath through his nose. Just then the sound of a car accelerating hard could be heard outside. John and Mary shot each other a brief look before they both turned their heads towards the front room.

They looked out of the window and saw how a red car came speeding, then did a dramatic U-turn with a squeal of tyres and stopped right outside the house.

There was the sound of shattering glass and a black plastic rubbish bin flew through the air and crashed to the ground.

Mary's mouth dropped open. The three of the got up from their seats and walked towards the front door. John blinked hearing the wailing of a police car's siren drawing ever closer. Mary opened the front door and walked outside, followed by John, just as a helicopter could be heard overhead.

When Mary looked up, the helicopter hovering closer, she spotted a camera clearly visible, installed underneath the helicopter.

John looked at the expensive-looking red car instead, smoke was still rising from the car's tortured tyres. He then squinted upwards towards the helicopter, while the police siren continued to wail. Police cars were just pulling up from both ends of the road.

John and Mary looked on with interest as the driver's door opened and the sound of Beethoven's Symphony No. 9, Ode to Joy, blared from the car's stereo.

"Well, now..." the therapist said, giving the driver of the car a curious look. "... won't you introduce me?"

John and Mary gaped when they saw Mrs Hudson closing the door of the car, smiling and sighing in relief as she walked towards them.

Before either of them could utter a single word, a male police officer stormed over towards Mrs Hudson.

"Right, you there. Stop right where you are!"

"Huh? What?" She stopped momentarily, looking at the officer, then turned and continued towards the front door, holding out a hand towards John. "Oh, John..."

John took a step towards her. "Mrs Hudson..."

"Do you have any idea what speed you were going at?" the police officer asked her.

She stopped and took a step towards him. "Well, of _course_ not. I was on the phone." She then held out a mobile phone to him. "... it's for you, by the way."

The officer automatically took the phone that was handed to him. "For me?" he asked, a puzzled look on his face.

"It's the government," she told him as she turned and headed for the house.

"The what?!"

"Oh, it's just Mycroft," Mrs Hudson said seeing the expression on John and Mary's faces.

"What's going on? What's wrong?" John asked.

"Oh, Mrs H, Look at the state of you!" Mary cried out. "What have you been doing?!"

"It's Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson broke down in tears ad she pulled Mary into a hug. "You've no idea what I've been through!"

SSS

Mrs Hudson quickly recounted her entire story to John and Mary; the state she'd found Sherlock in... the shouting, the shooting... how scared she'd been.

John led her along the hall in his therapist's house. Mary had an arm wrapped around Mrs Hudson as she closed the front door and followed her husband.

"Did you call the police?" John asked.

"Of _course_ I didn't call the police. I'm not a civilian!" his former landlady told him indignantly.

"So, he's still obsessing over Culverton Smith then?"

"Oh, you have no idea," Mrs Hudson told him gravely.

Mary sadly shook her head. "Last time we've seen him... he had it in his mind that Culverton Smith is a serial killer. That was before..." Her voice trailed off.

"Culverton Smith," their therapist said, drawing their attention. When they looked over to her, she had her laptop open on the side table in the back room. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she bent down to the computer and ran her finger over the pad.

"This, I think, is relevant from this morning." She then showed them the results of her search. At the right of the screen there were photographs of Smith, and underneath several links to a couple of books he had written. 'How to Make a Killing' and 'Business Killer' were just two examples.

The therapist pointed to the left of the screen and clicked on the top item on the results list 'He's a serial killer!'

"He's publicly accused Mr Smith of being a serial killer," she told them.

The webpage loaded and showed a report on _Speculator Online._ The article showed side-by-side photos of Sherlock, wearing his deerstalker and looking towards the camera, and a smiling Smith.

The two photos were divided by a jagged white line that resembled a lightning bolt. Underneath the 'He's a serial killer!' headline, the strapline read: 'Recently widowed net detective blasts Culverton Smith on Twitter' and underneath that:

• Defamatory remark goes viral on social networking site  
• Media tycoon yet to comment

John and Mary leaned down, peering at the screen.

"Damn, Sherlock on Twitter. He really _has_ lost it," John said dryly.

"Don't you _dare_ make jokes. Don't you _dare_. I was terrified!" Mrs Hudson said, her voice cross and her face stern.

Her face then softened and gained a pleading look. "You two need to see him. You need to _help_ him!"

John shook his head. "Nope. Sorry, Mrs Hudson, there's only so many phone calls I'm willing to make and I already made the last one to Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't want help. Not from us at least."

"He _needs_ you!" she said frantically.

"Then why did he push us away? Hmm? He's not the only one who lost her, you know? We all did!"

Mary gave the therapist a brief glance, who looked at them with barely concealed interest.

"But... she was his wife, was she not? Surely her death hit him the hardest?"

"Kyrie... she was his wife yes. And it is beyond 'tragic' that her..." John grimaced. Mary walked over to him and rubbed his back. "... heart gave out like that. But _we_ lost her too. And now... we lost him as well. Because he _won't_ talk to us!" He raised his voice as if he wanted to make it clear the break in communication was not his choice. He shrugged Mary's arm away and turned away.

Mrs Hudson stormed over to him. "Now you just listen to me for once in your stupid life. I _know_ Kyrie's death is difficult for you two to bear..." she sobbed. "... I know your hearts are broken, because mine is too! But if Sherlock Holmes dies too, who will you have then?"

John opened his mouth but Mrs Hudson shushed him, pointing an angry finger at him. "Because I tell you something, John and Mary Watson! If you two stop reaching out to him, if you will allow him to suffer alone and wallow in self-pity, killing himself along the way... You will certainly not have me!"

She stormed out of the door and headed for the front door.

Mary worried her lip and looked up at John while briefly glancing over to the therapist who was still watching them intensely. She jerked her head towards the direction Mrs Hudson had just disappeared to. John nodded at her and they both followed Mrs Hudson outside.

They found her with her arms folded on top of the Aston's roof, her head lowered onto them. She was crying.

Mary looked around, her shoulders slumped. The police cars and helicopter were gone. John gave her a pointed look before he slowly walked towards Mrs Hudson while she sobbed noisily.

He stopped behind her for a long moment, blew out a long breath and stepped closer. "Have you spoken to Mycroft, Molly, uh, anyone?" he asked her.

Mrs Hudson answered through her tears, her voice quaky. "They don't matter. You two do." Suddenly she straightened up and turned to face him. "If-If I can make him... Would you just see him? Please, John. Because... I really think he needs a doctor. He looks awful!"

"Of course I'd see him!" John said. "I just don't know how _you_ can get _him_ to see us!"

"D'you promise?" she asked hopefully, beaming at him.

"If you can find a way for Sherlock to actually see and listen to us..."

John smirked when Mrs Hudson turned puppy dog eyes on him. "Promise me?"

"I promise."

"Thank you!" she exclaimed, sounding very relieved.

John and Mary gave each other a puzzled look when she walked to the rear of the car. They followed her and looked on when she opened the boot of the car and lifted it up.

John and Mary both gaped when they saw Sherlock, inside the boot, looking up at them with an anxious expression on his face.

"Well? On you go. He's in no position to send you away now."

In the boot Sherlock squinted against the daylight. His wrists were handcuffed together in front of him, his long legs bent up. With effort, he lifted his head and peered out.

John's lips twitched. "Comfy?" he asked.

Sherlock gave him a dark glare. "Does it _look_ like I'm comfy?"

Mary quirked her lips at him and helped him get out of the boot. He stumbled on his feet and glared at Mrs Hudson as she removed the handcuffs from his wrists.

John briefly looked at her as if he wasn't sure what to do next, then he opened the front door of the therapist's house and stood aside while Sherlock, rubbing one of his wrists, stumbled inside.

Mary coughed suspiciously when Sherlock exploded in exasperation. "The woman's out of control. I asked for a cup of tea!"

He stopped partway down the hall and picked up a glass vase of flowers from a shelf and took out the flowers. He then headed further down the hall. John turned to Mrs Hudson as she walked in.

" _How_ did you get him in the boot?" he asked her.

"The boys from the café."

Sherlock turned back at them, his face filled with anger. "They dropped me. _Twice_!" he snapped at her. He then turned around again and headed for the kitchen, drinking some of the water from the vase.

"Really, Sherlock?" Mary chuckled. Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow and lifted the vase as if he was making a toast.

"And d'you know _why_ they dropped you, dear?" she asked him sweetly. Sherlock angrily dumped the flowers onto the breakfast bar. "Because they _know_ you.

Sherlock took another drink from the vase and grimaced, then gestured towards the therapist standing in the consultation room, a phone to her ear.

"Who's this one?" He pointed at her while looking at John. "Is this a new person? I'm against new people, you know this."

The therapist spoke into the phone. "Excuse me for a moment." She lowered the phone.

Sherlock, holding the vase in both hands, took another long drink from it. Mary gave him a disgusted look.

"She's our therapist."

Sherlock gestured between John and Mary. "Both of yours? Awesome."

He walked towards the therapist. "D'you do block bookings?"

John was still standing in the hall and he pointed out of the open front door to the Aston. "Whose car is that?"

Mrs Hudson turned around to look at him. "That's my car."

"How can _that_ be your car?!"

"Oh, for goodness sake! I'm the widow of a drug dealer, I own property in central London and for the last bloody time, John, I'm not your housekeeper!" she cried out exasperated. She turned around with a huff and walked back to the front door to close it.

In the consultation room, Sherlock stood with his back to the chair in which John was sitting earlier. He looked round at it and then dropped heavily onto it, grimacing.

The therapist held out the phone to John. "I'm so sorry. I answered your phone. You were busy. I think you'll want to take it."

John took it and held it to his ear as he walked back into the hall.

"Uh, yes, hello?"

" _Is this Doctor John Watson?"_

"Yeah. Who's this?"

" _Culverton Smith. You've probably heard of me."_

John looked towards the open laptop which still showed the article about the man in question. John gave Mary a pointed look and gestured at the phone. "Uh, well, yes."

Mary went to stand next to John to listen in on the conversation.

" _I mean, I'm aware of this morning's developments. As I can't seem to get a hold of... Mr Holmes, I'm just calling **you** to confirm we are still all meeting."_

Sherlock held up the vase, which was now almost empty. "Get me a fresh glass of water, please. This one's filthy."

Sherlock leaned forward with a sigh and held out the vast to the therapist who walked up to him and took the vase from his hands.

"Yes. I'm sure he was being... hilarious. Sorry, the meeting... that's today?" John asked. Mary rolled her eyes and glared in Sherlock's direction.

" _Yes. I've sent a car; should be outside. Mr Holmes gave me an address."_

"Of course he did," John said. When the doorbell rang his lips twitched. He turned and walked to the front door and opened it.

"When you're ready, sir." A man, dressed in a formal looking suit, was standing outside.

John pursed his lips when he looked to the kerb and saw a black stretch limousine parked in front of the Aston Martin. He looked at the man again and gave him a tiny nod. The man turned away and John closed the door. He lifted the phone to his ear and headed down the hall.

"We will see you shortly then." He gave Mary another look and switched off his phone. "Culverton," he whispered.

"Yes, I gathered as much. Did Sherlock tell you he scheduled the meeting for today?" Mary whispered back.

John shook his head. "Nope. Not a thing. He also failed to mention _what_ method of transportation he'd use to get here."

Sherlock was slumped back in the chair with his eyes closed. The therapist was just putting a glass of water onto the nearby table.

"I didn't know about the boot. The boot was _mean,_ " he said petulantly, giving Mrs Hudson an accusing look.

"You had it coming, young man!" Mrs Hudson huffed and then looked as if she was about to burst into tears. "Kyrie would roll over in her grave if she could see you now. If she'd been buried that is... Not- not... cremated in a _private_ ceremony." She nearly choked on the last words and Sherlock looked very awkward and uncomfortable.

"Seems he failed to mention quite a few things," Mary said under her breath. John nodded his head slightly and straightened himself, glancing briefly at the therapist who was still standing nearby.

"Sherlock, you asked us to help you with Culverton Smith, before..."

He licked his lips as if he couldn't bring himself to say the words. "Well, you know. And then you suddenly wanted nothing to do with us. Does this..." John spread his arms wide. "... does this mean you've changed your mind?

Sherlock closed his eyes and scrunched up his face. "I- just needed to be alone. I needed time. That's all."

"No, Sherlock, you _needed_ _us_ , but you _wanted_ to be alone because that's your go to response... push people away and sulk on your own."

All John got was a casual shrug. He sighed slightly then held out his right hand towards Sherlock, pulling in a sharp breath through his nose. Sherlock stood up, also sighing a little, and took his hand.

Instantly John clasped Sherlock's arm with his other hand and turned it over. Sherlock rolled his eyes as John pushed up the sleeves of his dressing gown and shirt to reveal the dark marks on the underside of his arm. Proof he'd been shooting himself up with drugs. Mrs Hudson gasped in shock.

"Before I do anything," John said, giving him a pointed look. "I need to know what state you're in."

"Well, you're a doctor. Examine me," Sherlock said, sitting down on the chair again.

The therapist walked up to them. "Have you tried to find help with that, counselling perhaps...?"

"What... You offering me a discount?" Sherlock grumbled.

"Sherlock Holmes and counselling... That will be the day." John gave him a dissatisfied look. "And no, I'm not examining you. I need a second opinion."

"Oh, John, calm down," Sherlock said exasperated. "When have you ever managed _two_ opinions? You'd fall over." He sighed, eyeing the therapist. "Let's just go outside. Molly should be here about now."

"Sherlock!" John cried out.

The doorbell rang. John looked towards the sound, then heaved out a frustrated breath and scowled down at Sherlock.

Mary beat him to the door and opened it for Molly, who was standing outside wearing her white lab coat over her clothes. Mary smiled at her. "We've been expecting you."

"Um, hel-hello. I'm sorry, Sh-Sherlock asked me to come."

"Of course he did," she said with a smile and looked outside at the ambulance parked in the driveway of the house opposite. A paramedic was just in the process of opening the rear doors.

Sherlock stumbled out into the hall. "Let's just go. Fully equipped ambulance. Molly can... _examine_ me on the way." He stopped on the doorstep. "Ready to go, Molly?"

"Oh, well..."

"Just tell me when to cough." He gave her a fake looking tight little smile and walked out the door. "Hope you remembered my coat."

"Yes it's in the..."

He was already gone. She looked at John who appeared next to Mary and gave him an exasperated sigh. "... back... John?"

"Don't even ask. I don't know any more. I don't even know whether he's actually high or just faking it."

Sherlock briefly glanced towards the nearby limousine, then walked round the front of the Aston, almost falling off the kerb before he steadied himself and headed for the ambulance.

"Absolutely no idea what's going on," Molly told John.

"I'm not sure he knows himself," he muttered.

"Let's just see what this meeting with... Culverton Smith brings, the alleged serial killer... See you there, Molly."

Nodding, Molly turned and headed across the road.

Suddenly Mrs Hudson appeared right behind them. "Is Molly the right person to be doing medicals? She's more used to dead people. It's bound to lower your standards."

Mary rolled her eyes and sighed. "She'll do fine," she muttered, then started to walk towards the limousine. "John?" she called over her back.

John gave Mrs Hudson a little smile and started to follow his wife. He turned half-way, then stopped to turn around. "Um... Sometimes, you think I can borrow your car?"

She seemed to think about it, just for a split second, then she shook her head. "No." She then turned away.

"Okay," John said, with a look that said it'd been worth a try. He turned around and walked along the road, passing the open door of the ambulance. He walked to the left rear door of the limo. A man, one of Culverton's men presumably, held it open for him. John nodded to him.

"Thanks," he said, before sliding inside, where Mary was already waiting for him, sitting on the other side, one leg curled under her. The man closed the door.

"This is... madness," she said. "John, he's derailing without her."

John leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "I know."

"Even with Billy supervising. Are we sure he's not... you know?" Mary asked, keeping a wary eye on the driver.

John shrugged his shoulders. "Who even knows with him? But, I don't think he'd risk it. Not now anyway."

Mary shook her head, a sad look in her eyes. "He's putting himself through hell."

He pursed his lips and gave her a serious look. "Penance."

She sighed. "I wish he didn't have to do this, but, if he _is_ right about... you know... and he usually is..." Mary blew out a shuddering breath. "Do you at least know _how_ he wants to approach this?"

"We have plans," John said with a wry smile.

"Plans?"

"Yes. A, B en C..."

Mary closed her eyes and sighed.

"Look, I'm not coming with you. I promised the babysitter I'd be back in time... We need to put an end to this, John. One way or the other. "

He nodded his head and repeated his previous response. "I know. See you soon."

Mary leaned in for a kiss, then opened the door of the limo and got out.

"You ready, sir?" the driver asked him, looking in the rear-view mirror.

John sighed deeply. "Yes. Yes, I am."


	101. The Monster Lurking Beneath

**A/N I really, really shouldn't be updating this chapter tonight, but, I just wanted to have this one out of the way. I kind of wish I could have done a big time skip but felt the skip would cover too much of the story. Needless to say, this is not my favourite chapter so, just consider it to be filler. I didn't want to update this tomorrow as 'the chapter of the day'.**

 **Thank you all, by the way for your congratulations on my 100th chapter! I wish I could have made the chapter a bit more special but alas... I couldn't do that at this part of the story.**

 **I'm not going to delve into your theories too much. It's too much fun reading your thoughts and theories to ruin that.**

 **Just to touch on one review: Companion Teresa. I don't think I understand what part of the previous chapter you mean. Is it Mrs Hudson's line about them being heart-broken? Because those are just her words and don't necessarily reflect what John and Mary are _really_ feeling. **

**Anyway, enjoy this extra chapter today! I think I will hit a point soon I won't be able to update daily, but with just one more episode to go plus of course an epilogue, I think you guys will forgive me for that.**

 **SSS**

The limo came to a halt in a car park in front of a large TV studio. A man dressed in professional attire walked over and opened the rear right-hand door so John, who'd already slid across to that side, could get out.

The ambulance was parked nearby with its back doors opened. John walked over to where Molly was sitting on the back step. She was sitting slightly hunched over, her hands clasped in her lap.

Sherlock was lying on the stretcher inside, but in the process of standing up. He took off his dressing gown and reached down to pick up his coat which he'd been using as a pillow.

John scowled seeing how his shirt hung loosely around his frame, his trousers riding just a bit lower, his hipbones the only thing that kept his trousers from dropping down around his ankles.

Sherlock put ons his coat and came to the doorway, holding onto the poles on either side and cast his gaze in the direction of the entrance to the studio, a grim look in his eyes.

John and Molly looked at the entrance as well.

"Mr Holmes!"

John looked past Sherlock's shoulder to where the voice came from.

"And there he is," Sherlock mumbled.

Smith was coming out of the doors of the 'Village Studios' building. A woman was walking closely behind him and a man walked alongside, filming him as more people came out of the doors behind him.

Sherlock stared at the man, walking towards hem, followed by his entourage. "Thirty feet and closing... The most significant undetected serial killer in British criminal history," he said pensive.

He turned around, giving Molly a pointed look. Her eyes widened a bit, before her expression turned sour in an instant, the corners of her mouth pulled down. "If you keep taking what you're taking at the rate you're taking it, you've got weeks!" Molly started yelling, her voice climbing.

Two cameramen broke away from Smith's entourage and circled in on Molly and Sherlock.

"Exactly, weeks. Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Sherlock stepped down to the ground and instantly tottered on the spot.

 _Snap. Snap._ The cameras clicked and flashed.

"For heaven's sake, Sherlock, it's not a game!"

Sherlock turned towards her, ignoring the two cameraman invading his privacy. "I'm worried about you, Molly. You seem very stressed."

"I'm stressed. Y _o_ _u_ _'re_ dying."

"Yeah, well, I'm ahead, then. Stress can ruin _every_ day of your life. Dying can only ruin one," he told her blasé.

"Mr Holmes!" Smith called out again.

Sherlock turned to face him. Smith stopped a few feet away. Another cameraman hurried around behind John and Sherlock so that they could film Smith from the front. The two other cameramen will still taking shots of Sherlock.

"I don't do handshakes." Smith spread his arms as he walked up to Sherlock. "It'll have to be a hug."

"I know," Sherlock said, and he looked as if he was only reluctantly accepting his fate.

Reporters who were holding their notebooks started to gather around them. Chuckling, Smith reached out and hugged Sherlock. Sherlock leaned down, allowing the other man to pull him into an embrace, one he did not return. He glared at the reporters. He seemed offended for having to allow the obnoxious monster to even touch him.

Smith patted his back as he rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock glared at the man's unwelcome familiarity.

"Oh, Sherlock!" he said again upon releasing him and he took a step back. "What can I say? Thanks to you..." he turned to his entourage "... we're, uh, we're everywhere!"

"Mr Holmes, is it true you only have weeks to live?" a male reporter asked him.

Smith gave Sherlock a shocked look. "Oh, I hope not, that would be _such_ a waste!"

"Is it true you are doing drugs to cope with the death of your wife?"

Sherlock turned around and snarled at the reporter who'd dared to ask him that particular question. The miscreant slunk away but another reporter already had a question at the ready.

"Mr Holmes, how did Culverton talk you into this?"

"Well, he-he's a detective." Smith faked a startled look. "Maybe I just confessed!"

The reporters and Smith laughed. He looked at Sherlock and beckoned him towards the building. "Come on," Smith goaded them.

Sherlock started to follow him and threw an anxious look to John, who followed him. John shivered when he briefly saw the fearful look on his face, before Sherlock turned around.

"Now, it's a... it's a new kind of breakfast cereal," Smith said, walking along.

"Mr Holmes, can you put on the hat?" A reporter asked.

Sherlock pulled his lips in a thin line.

"Yeah, he doesn't really wear the hat," John curtly said to the reporter. "And the person he'd actually want to wear it for... is dead."

There was a brief moment of awkward silence, only broken by the sound of footsteps and clearing of throats

Smith harrumphed. "Kids will be getting two of their five-a-day before they've even left home!" he said, directing the attention to himself. Smith lead the crowd into the building and stopped to take a notebook from a woman and signed his name in it.

A fairly attractive woman walked alongside John. Smith's assistant. Her hair was done up in a half ponytail and she was wearing a stylish dress. She smiled pleasantly. "Sherlock's been amazing for us."

Smith handed the notebook back to the woman as she smiled and he then continued onwards with his entourage. He turned to the reporters. "Breakfast has got to be cool."

His assistant was still looking and smiling at John. "We're beyond viral."

"And you know what makes it cool when you're a kid?" Smith asked.

"What, sorry?" John asked the assistant confused. He was not as accustomed as Sherlock to be able to partake in two separate conversations at the same time. "Beyond what?"

"Dangerous," Smith said, practically growling.

SSS

Sherlock was staring at Smith who was right in the middle of filming a commercial for the new breakfast cereal 'Gnash'. Smith smiled that skin-crawling smile of his, straight into the front camera, right before he raised a bowl and said, "But did you know I'm a cereal killer?"

Sherlock nodded at the man and chuckled slightly, his gaze intense.

Smith took a spoonful of cereal and chewed on it, making an appreciative noise. "Mm!"

He instantly straightened up and gestured towards the director.

"And cut there. Thank you," the director said. Sherlock watched intently as Smith put down the bowl, clapped his hands together a few times and gestured to a young woman who hurried over to him carrying a black plastic bin with a white bin liner inside.

Smith leaned down to the bin and spit the cereal into it. Though Sherlock could not hear what Smith said to the young woman, the fixated smile on her face that never reached her eyes, made him pull his lips in a grim line.

John turned to Sherlock. "Has it occurred to you – _anywhere_ in your drug-addled brain – that you've just been played?"

"Oh, yes," Sherlock admitted.

"For an ad campaign," John said pointedly.

"Brilliant, isn't it?"

"Brilliant?" John asked.

Sherlock stared towards Smith. "Safest place to hide," he remarked softly. His gaze turned intense as he watched how Smith picked a bit of cereal from his teeth while a wardrobe mistress adjusted his shirt and a make-up artist stroked a brush through her tin of powder.

His eyes widened considerably as he kept watching Smith. "Plain sight," he muttered.

Smith's assistant walked over towards him, hips slightly swaying and a too broad smile on her face.

"Mr Holmes? Culverton wants to know if you're okay going straight to the hospital."

"Hospital?" John scoffed. Perhaps at the irony of her words.

"Culverton's doing a visit. The kids would _love_ to meet you both. I think he sort of promised."

"Oh, okay," Sherlock answered blasé and instantly turned and walked away.

Smith's assistant gestured to John. "If you'd just like to come this way."

Shortly after, John slid into the right-hand side of the limousine. Sherlock was already sitting on the other side, typing on a phone. John looked at it, a puzzled look on his face.

"Sherlock, are you sure about Culverton Smith? And... What _are_ we doing here? What's the point?"

Sherlock continued to type and didn't look up. "I needed a hug," he replied nonchalantly. "Not getting a lot of those lately."

John looked over to him and gave him a pointed look. "That's not even remotely funny, Sherlock."

"I know," he mumbled.

Smith suddenly came up to John's side of the car and knocked on the window. John swiftly located and pressed the button to lower it. Smith bent down and looked in.

"What do you think, Mr Holmes? 'Cereal' killer."

Sherlock only briefly glanced at him, still typing a message on the phone. "Now _that_ is funny 'cause it's true!"

Smith chuckled a bit and pushed himself away from the window. "See you at the hospital," he said as he started to walk away.

Sherlock turned and called to him. "Oh, you can have this back now." The phone chimed, indicating a message had just been sent. Sherlock swallowed and smacked his lips, a look of disinterest plastered on his face.

Smith stopped and turned, then slowly walked back to the window. "Have what back?"

Sherlock reached across John and held out the phone with an insincere smile. "Thanks for the hug."

Frowning, Smith took the phone from Sherlock's hand.

"Oh, I sent and deleted a text," Sherlock added. "You might get a reply but I doubt it." He settled back into the seat.

Smiling, Smith tucked the phone, that turned out to be his, into his inside jacket pocket. "It's password protected," he reminded Sherlock, as if he didn't believe him.

Sherlock scoffed in disdain. "Oh, please!"

Smith chuckled at him. "We're going to have endless fun, Mr Holmes, aren't we?"

"Oh no," Sherlock disagreed, his voice soft but precise. "No, not endless."

Giving him a last little smile, Smith walked away. Sherlock grimly watched him go, just briefly before he turned away.

John glanced towards him as Sherlock shuddered and let out a silent sigh, hugging himself.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice a bit edgy.

"I think Billy may have been a bit off with his calculations. It's hitting me harder than it should. I don't think he took a lower tolerance in account. I've not used since..."

"Can you still do this?" John asked him pointedly.

"Yes, but... I think I'll have to use the... other one... can't think straight with this down. I can wait until the hospital though."

John turned his head away with a sigh, clearly not liking the situation, and closed the window. Sherlock laid his head back and closed his eyes.

SSS

They were driven to Saint Caedwalla's Hospital. Ironic name that, as St Caedwalla was the patron saint of serial killers. Or, more specifically, of repentant serial killers.

Sherlock and John were led inside the hospital where a blue-uniformed female nurse was already waiting for them. Claiming to feel unwell, Sherlock quickly excused himself and ducked inside a corridor that had a 'toilets' sign above it.

John and the nurse, NURSE CORNISH – it said on her name tag, were standing in the corridor, waiting for Sherlock to emerge from the bogs. Near them, there was a large photo on the wall, of Smith, just about the cut the ribbon when he opened 'The Culverton Smith Wing'. To the left of the large photo was a plaque, dedicated to 'the man of the hour'.

The nurse looked at John, giving him a curious look. "You involved much?" she asked.

"Sorry?"

"Um, with Mr Holmes," she clarified. "Sherlock and all his cases?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm John Watson," he said with a slightly surprised chuckle.

Nurse Cornish blinked at him and smiled politely. "Okay," she said. Clearly, John's name meant absolutely nothing to her.

" _Doctor_ Watson." John tried again, stressing the title.

"I love his blog, don't you?" she asked, bringing the conversation back to the topic of the blog.

" _His_ blog?" John asked, leaning forward a bit, a surprised look on his face as if he hadn't heard her correctly.

"Oh, don't you read it?" she asked, looking appalled at the thought.

"You mean _my_ blog." John tried to correct her.

Right then, Sherlock emerged from the nearby bogs. "Say what you like about addiction, the day is _full_ of highlights." He spread his hands and looked briefly skywards to punctuate the word.

Nurse Cornish smiled at him, an adoring look in her eyes. "Oh, Mr Holmes," she sighed a bit breathlessly. "You feeling better?"

"Psychedelic!" he whispered, smiling a bit.

"I was just saying I love your blog."

"Great. I..."

John interrupted him. "It's _my_ blog."

"It is," he admitted instantly and he nodded at John. "He writes the blog."

"It's yours?" she exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes," John said, with a firm nod of his head.

"You write Sherlock's blog?" Clearly she had problems wrapping her head around the concept.

"Yes," John said again, confirming that little fact for the second time.

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes and then widened them, blowing out a long breath.

"It's... gone downhill a little bit, hasn't it?" Nurse Cornish said a bit hesitantly, her voice and face apologetic.

John smiled tightly at her.

"Oh, it's this way, then," she said after a moment and turned around.

Sherlock blew out another breath before he and John started to follow her.

SSS

Smith was standing in the middle of a play area ina children's ward. Young patients, their nurses and other support staff were sitting and standing around him. He turned and everyone applauded as Nurse Cornish led Sherlock and John into the room. Another nurse smiled at them as they walk past.

"Oh, my God. I love your blog!" She nearly swooned.

Sherlock pointed both index fingers at her and smiled broadly at her.

"You're welcome!" he said brightly and put a friendly hand on her shoulder as he walked past. John looked at them, managing to keep his face straight and refrain from commenting.

"Right, here he comes, the internet 'tec!" Smith said with gusto as Sherlock ventured further into the room, mock-gaping at the sight.

"You all know Sherlock Holmes!"

The children cheered and applauded even harder.

"Hello!" Sherlock greeted them, but his voice was drowned out by the cheering and clapping.

Smith walked closer to him as the applause started to die down. "Oh, and Doctor Watson, of course," he said, as if John was no more than a footnote.

The small audience clapped again, but this time the applause was lukewarm at best. John pressed his lips together in a tight line.

"Now, we _all_ know about the tragedy that befell you. So, first of all, our deepest sympathies and condolences for your loss. Isn't it admirable children, that Mr Holmes still decided to honour us with a visit?"

"Yes!" the children answered in unison, then blinked, unsure of how to act further. Smith was already a step head of them and cajoled them into backing him up with his small request.

"Mr Holmes. I was wondering – well..." Smith turned to the kids. "... we _all_ were, weren't we? Maybe you could tell us about some of your cases?"

"Yes!" the children exclaimed again, more enthusiastic this time round.

"No," Sherlock said promptly.

"Yes," John said, forcing him to change his answer.

"Yes! Absolutely, yes," Sherlock amended. He walked forward into the circle of children and put on his 'lecturing' face.

"The main feature of interest in the field of criminal investigation is _not_ the sensational aspects of the crime itself, but rather..." he paused a bit and pulled in a breath.

"...the _iron_ chain of reasoning, from cause to effect, that reveals – step by step – the solution." He clasped his hands together.

"That's the only truly remarkable aspect of the entire affair," he added a bit quieter.

He gesticulated his hands as he started talking again. "Now, I will share with you the facts and evidence as they were available to me..."

He put his hands on his chest to indicate himself before he turned around and wandered back over in John's direction. "... and in this very room you will all attempt to solve the case of Blessington the Poisoner."

John gave him a pointed look. "I think you slightly gave away the ending," he said in a quiet voice.

Sherlock ignored him and turned back to his audience. "There were five main suspects..."

"One of them called Blessington," John added.

"... but it's more about _how_ he did it," Sherlock continued, throwing John a brief look.

"Poison?" John offered dryly.

"Okay," Sherlock conceded.

The children started to laugh and Smith smiled at him, his hands clasped together in front of him.

"Drearcliff House. Remember that one, John?" He blew out a harsh breath. "One murder, _ten_ suspects," Sherlock said excitedly. He held up both his hands and splayed his fingers for emphasis.

"Ten, yeah," John said with a wry smile.

" _All_ of them guilty."

"Sherlock..."

"Uh, wh-wh-wh-what did you call that one, John?" Sherlock asked. He was clearly starting to lose concentration. "Um, something to do with murder at the zoo."

"Yeah, I called it Murder at the Zoo," John said pointedly.

The audience, children and adults alike, smiled at this.

"Or-or was it The Case of the Killer Orang-Utan?"

They all fell silent. They were clearly at a loss when Sherlock again gave away the solution. John shook his head, trying to keep his face straight, but his lips slightly twitching.

Sherlock turned in a circle to look at his audience. He seemed to have decided on giving up storytelling, clearly he wasn't gifted at that. "So, any more questions?"

Several kids answered in unison. "No."

One of them trailed off a bit. "I don't think so."

"No?" Sherlock asked them, nodding his head at them before starting to turn around.

Smith was seated on a low chair amidst a couple of children and now raised a hand. "Mr Holmes?"

"Good, then I'll..." he trailed off as he finished his turn and looked at Smith.

"How do you catch a serial killer?" Smith asked curiously. He was suddenly holding a Barbie-type doll in his hands.

Sherlock briefly stared at it, before raising his eyes to meet Smith's. They both regarded each other in silence for a brief moment before Sherlock started to speak.

"Same way you catch any other killer," he replied matter-of-factly, his hands still clasped together.

"No, but m-most killers kill someone they know," Smith disagreed.

Sherlock blinked several times.

"You're looking for a murderer in a tiny social grouping."

Nurse Cornish carefully interrupted him. "Um, Mr Smith. Um, I'm-I'm just, er, wondering. Maybe this isn't a suitable subject for the children."

"Nurse Cornish... How long have you been with us now?" Smith asked her in a quiet voice, not even looking at her.

"Seven years," she answered, wide-eyed, as if she felt slightly insulted he didn't know this.

Smith turned around to look at her with a dispassionate face. "Seven years," he repeated her. She smiled a bit nervously. "Okay."

The way another nurse gave Nurse Cornish a queasy look, betrayed that somehow, Smith made the staff feel threatened.

Smith gave her another brief, pensive look, then turned back towards Sherlock and the audience. "Serial killers choose their victims at random. Surely that must make it more difficult?"

His tone was serious as he spoke and the adults in the room were starting to look more than just a little uncomfortable.

Sherlock directed a wide-eyed gaze at him. " _Some_ of them advertise," he said, giving Smith a pointed look.

"Do they really?" Smith asked, his voice and expression all innocent-like.

"Serial killing is an expression of power, ego, a signature in human destruction," Sherlock explained, his voice precise.

Smith pressed his lips together, while he fiddled with the doll on his lap with both hands as Sherlock continued. Both men had their eyes locked on each other.

"Ultimately, for _full_ satisfaction, it requires..." He paused briefly, to give his next words full effect. "... _plain sight._ "

Smith looked at him intensely, as if he were hanging on to Sherlock's every word.

"Additionally, serial killers are easily profiled. They tend to be social outcasts, educationally sub-normal."

Nurse Cornish looked around the room with an anxious look on her face.

"No-no-no-no-no-no. You're just talking about the ones you _know_ , the ones you've _caught_."

Sherlock frowned slightly.

"But hello, _dummy_ , you only catch the dumb ones. Now, imagine if the _Queen_ wanted to kill some people. What would happen then?"

The nurse who'd given Nurse Cornish a queasy look, now looked terrified.

Sherlock's gaze lowered downwards towards Smith's hands.

"All that power, all that money." He squeezed the head of the doll with one thumb, crushing its face. "Sweet little government dancing attendance."

Nurse Cornish looked around at the other nurse, both looking equally uncomfortable as they shared a brief glance between the two of them.

"A whole country just to keep her warm and..." He made a small casual gesture with his hands, intentionally _unintentionally_ pulling the doll's head off its body.

"... and fat." He smiled up at Sherlock, whose eyes were still fixed on the doll. Smith pushed the head back onto its body and acted as if he'd done nothing out of the ordinary.

"Hm," Smith hummed. He looked round at the kids, who'd fallen deathly silent, with a big smile on his face. "We all love the Queen, don't we? And I bet she'd love you lot!"

John stepped forward a few paces. "Uh, it-it's all right, everyone. I can personally assure you that Sherlock Holmes is not about to _arrest_ the Queen," he said, in an obvious attempt to diffuse the tension. He grinned at the kids.

"Well, of course not!" Smith said in mock-jest at the absurdity of the thought. "Not Her Majesty!"

Sherlock stared intensely at him as Smith turned back to face him, giving Sherlock a meaningful look. "Money, power, fame. Some things make you untouchable."

John looked down at the man and he blinked a few times. If the ' _I'm a cereal killer_ ' commercial had sown seeds of doubt in John's mind at all, his expression now proved he was behind Sherlock a 100 percent.

"God save the Queen!" Smith said loudly. He looked round at the kids. "She could open a slaughterhouse and we'd all probably pay the entrance fee!"

"No-one's untouchable," John told him.

"No-one?" Smith asked, his voice defiant.

Sherlock's eyes turned towards John and he smiled slightly.

Smith was still looking at the children. "Look at you all! So gloomy! Can't you take a joke?"

The adults, however, were the ones who were visibly the most affected by Smith's words and... overall creepy behaviour.

He chuckled as he hit himself on the knees, then raised himself to his feet. "The Queen! If the Queen was a serial killer, I'd be the first person she'd tell!" He then pulled a funny face. "We have _that_ kind of friendship!"

Smith grinned and clapped his hands together. "A big round of applause for Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson!"

He gestured at Sherlock and started to applaud, while the rest of the audience joined in, rather unenthusiastically. "Come on! Wonderful!" He turned to smile at Sherlock, who gazed back at him intensely.

"Thank you so much for coming. Thank you."

Sherlock's eyes lifted to meet John's. _"See what I mean?"_ he seemed to silently tell his friend. John returned the look. _"Yes."_


	102. He'd Burn the World

**A/N Don't want to spoil anything, so you will just have to read this chapter. I hope reading it is as intense as it was writing it!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19  
Actually, Molly was not sad. Haha and yeah, them already knowing about Eurus is indeed stretching things a bit ;-)**

 **Artemis7448 Thank you for your kind words. I really didn't like writing that chapter though because it was SO constricting. Again... I did want it in though because I didn't just want to skip to this part.**

 **DreamonAlina You have to wait no more! Update is here :-)**

 **Guest Hmm. Not really sure where you get the idea that Eurus is in the centre of Sherlock's attention now. At this moment he still believes she's John's 'therapist'.'**

 **IronLace Aw thank you! That really means a lot to me! On one hand I really want to keep writing this story. On the other hand, I'll be glad when it's done so I have time again for my other hobbies. No matter how much I enjoyed writing this, it pretty much consumed all of my free time.**

 **SSS**

Smith was leading Sherlock and John along a white-painted small corridor, bathing in the bright lights on the ceiling.

"Where are we going now?" Sherlock asked him as he walked closely behind Smith.

"I want to show you my favourite room."

They walked past a door. Sherlock glanced towards it, then did a sudden double-take. "No-o, let's go in here," Sherlock said, disregarding Smith's words. He promptly pulled the door open and ducked inside.

A sign on the wall inside showed that they were now in 'Suite W34, Directors Boardroom B-2.'

There was a white rectangular table in the middle of the room with three side chairs on each side and one at each end. Drug stands were standing beside each of the side chairs, except the ones at each end. Sherlock walked around the table and vaguely gestured towards it.

"So, you've had another one of your 'little meetings'," he said, smiling humourlessly at the man.

"Oh, it's just a monthly top-up. Confession is good for the soul... providing you can delete it."

In the meantime, John walked up to one of the drug stands and took a closer look at the bag hanging from it. "What's TD12?" he asked.

"It's a memory inhibitor," Sherlock said.

"Bliss," Smith said, explaining his own point of view.

"Bliss?" John repeated him, giving him and incredulous look.

"Opt-in ignorance. Makes the world go round."

Sherlock folded his arms. "Anyone ever ' _opt_ ' to remember?"

"Some people take the drip out, yeah. Some people have the same... urges."

He then clapped his hands together. "Come on. Wasting time."

"Indeed," Sherlock said, looking at his watch. _"_ You have – I estimate – twenty minutes left." He smiled and walked towards the door, which Smith was just about to push open.

Smith turned back towards him. "Sorry?" he asked, his hand still resting against the door.

"I sent a text from your phone, remember? It was read almost immediately. Factoring in a degree of shock, an emotional decision and a journey time based on the associated address, I'd say that your life as you know it has twenty minutes left to run." He checked his watch again. "Well, no, seventeen and a half, to be precise but I rounded up for dramatic effect, so _please_ _do_ show us your favourite room."

He walked closer to Smith and gave him an intense glare. "It'll give you a chance to say... goodbye." He widened his eyes when saying that last word.

Smith seemed unfazed. He just chuckled rather unpleasantly. "Come along."

Sherlock pulled a brief humourless smile into existence for merely a split-second, before letting it drop from his face. He gave John a grim look before they both followed Smith through the door.

Walking briskly though the corridor, Smith led them to an elevator. During the ride down to a lower floor, Smith told Sherlock and John about his favourite serial killer. As if it was completely normal to even have a favourite serial killer.

Sherlock and John kept shooting each other knowing glances as Smith talked about H.H. Holmes, asking if the man was a relative of Sherlock's. Though he claimed that H.H. Holmes was his favourite, he had no problems at all with calling the man an idiot.

Smith chuckled as he led them along a blue-painted corridor. The ceiling was very high above them and had pipework running along it. He pushed through a set of double doors and quickly glanced around the room as he walked in.

"Everyone out," Smith ordered the moment he was inside.

After another sickeningly display that proved just how little regard Smith held for other people, dead or alive, John and Smith were facing each other, the body of some poor old woman on a slab between them.

The way Smith had talked about his favourite killer – H.H. Holmes, the murder hotel he'd built, the disdain Smith felt for the man for going through so much trouble... How easy it would be to hide lots and lots of murders in a hospital... Well, it all kind of sounded like a confession. So, that's what John asked him... If Smith was actually confessing. Plan A.

Smith looked at John. "Sorry. Yes," he said and then chuckled briefly. "You mean, am I a serial killer, or am I just trying to mess with your funny little head? Well, it's true."

Smith walked around the head of the table with the dead woman on it, while John gave him a grim look.

"I do like to mess with people..."

John glanced towards Sherlock at the far end of the room. Sherlock was blinking rapidly and trembling slightly, he hands stuffed in the top pockets of his coat.

"... and yes, I am a _bit_ creepy, but that's just my U.S.P. I use it to sell breakfast cereal. But am I what he says I am?" He pointed at Sherlock. "Is that what you're asking?"

Smith walked past John and continued along the side of the table. John turned to watch him.

"Yes," he said, simply.

"Hm. Well, let me ask you this." He stopped and turned to look at John. "Are you _really_ a doctor?" Smith gave John an incredulous look.

"Yeah, of course I am," John said, nodding his head, his voice soft.

"Well, no, a _medical_ doctor, you know. Not just feet, or media studies or something."

"I'm a doctor," John averred.

Smith snorted quietly. His expression full of disdain. "Are you serious? No, really, _are_ you?" He turned to walk away, then turned back and took a couple of steps towards John, looking at him with a face that was filled with anger. "Are you... are you _actually_ serious?"

He walked away again. "I've played along with this joke. It's not funny any more. No... _look_ at him." He gestured towards Sherlock who, at the moment, looked like he was badly in need of a new hit. He was blinking profusely in between widening his eyes in an attempt to keep them open.

"Go ahead, _look_ at him, _Doctor_ Watson! Hm? Oh, no, _I'll_ lay it out for you."

He walked back towards John again,holding up two fingers on his right hand. "There are two possible explanations for what's going on 'ere," he said, his voice laced with anger. He gestured towards himself. "Either I'm a _se-erial killer_..." He turned and walked towards Sherlock, pointing at him "... or Sherlock Holmes is off his tits on drugs, hm? Can't cope with his grief so he forms delusional paranoia about a-a public personality? That's not so special. It's not even new!"

Smith walked close to Sherlock, invading his personal space and started talking to him in stage whisper. "I think you need to, er, tell your faithful little friend how you're wasting his time because you're too high to know what's real any more."

He turned and walked away, stopping a few paces away with his back to Sherlock.

John frowned and looked over at Sherlock. This time, no brief look of understanding passed between them and it seemed John was no longer sure about what to believe.

"I apologise," Sherlock said, his voice quiet, almost demure. "I-I-I've miscalculated." He lifted his head, eyes widening as he realised something. "I forgot to factor in the _traffic_!" He said, scrunching up his face.

Stepping forward, he glanced at his watch and then at Smith. "Nineteen and a half minutes." Clearing his throat he continued onwards a couple of steps, then stopped and turned his left side towards the doors, dramatically cupping his left hand to his ear at the sound of opening lift doors from outside the mortuary.

"Ah, the footsteps you're about to hear will be _very_ familiar to you, not least because there'll be three impacts rather than two. The third, of course, will be the end of a walking cane. Your daughter Faith's walking cane."

"And why would _she_ be here?"

"You invited her." Sherlock gave Smith a tight little smile. " _Y_ ou sent her a text – or-or-or technically _I_ sent her a text but she's not to know."

He turned to look at the doors, almost as if he could see her coming, walking closer and closer towards the mortuary.

"Ah, let's see if I can recall," Sherlock said, looking upwards in concentration. "Faith... I can stand it no longer, I've confessed... to my crimes. Please forgive me!"

"Why would that have any effect?" Smith asked with a smile. "You don't know her."

"Oh, but I do," Sherlock said, his lips curling up in a small smile. "I spent a whole evening with her." He grinned as if he was recalling the evening. "We had chips." He looked down and his smile suddenly became a bit sad. "She made me laugh. I think she liked me."

"You don't know Faith. You simply do not," Smith stated again, his knowing little smile not even faltering once.

"I know you care about her deeply. I know you invited her to one of your special board meetings." Sherlock stepped closer to Smith. "You _care_ what she thinks." He gave Smith a smug smile, then started to laugh and pointed at Smith. "You maintain an _impressive_ façade."

As Smith continued to maintain his confident smile, Sherlock let his smile drop from his face and looked at the man with a serious expression. "I think it's about to break."

SSS

Greg Lestrade was watching the security footage, an intense look on his face. He turned his gaze back to John, a deep fold between his furrowed brows.

"Did you know?" he asked. "Was it all part of his 'plan'?"

John shook his head. "Of _course_ I didn't. And no, we never discussed anything even remotely like that."

"You didn't see him take the scalpel?" Greg asked John in the police interview room as a recording device on the table was recording their conversation.

" _Nobody_ saw him," John assured Greg.

"So, you didn't know what was about to happen?"

"I only knew what was _supposed_ to happen."

"What _was_ supposed to happen?"

John sighed and buried his hands in his face. He looked at the video footage and couldn't help but cringe. Plan B had been a disaster.

"Sherlock..." John gulped. "... he was _so_ sure that Culverton Smith's a serial killer. I-I even believed him," he said, nodding his head. He closed his eyes, wishing that Mary was here with him right now.

"When Kyrie woke up, we... Mary and me, went to their flat. It was clear that Sherlock had gone off the deep end. Couldn't cope at all with what had happened. You know... Kyrie jumping in front of him to save his life and... ending up in a coma and all." John shook his head. "He started doing drugs again."

Greg drew in a sharp breath and uttered a curse.

"At some point he got it into his drug-addled brain that Culverton Smith is a serial killer and seemed to believe the only way to redeem himself was to take him down. Even after Mary and I told him that Kyrie had woken up from the coma, he asked us for our help to unmask Smith. He said he wanted to give his relapse, doing drugs, some form of meaning... justification."

"Why did you go along with this?" Greg asked. "There was no proof. Why not bring me in on this?"

"That was to happen in plan C," John said and he pursed his lips.

"Plan C?"

"Yes."

Greg seemed to be at a loss for words for a moment. He blinked at John. "What... What did plans A and B entail?"

"Plan A was me trying to get a confession out of him. Sherlock said Culverton Smith would not be able to withstand the opportunity to boast. I thought I could turn that into a confession, Sherlock didn't. Hence... Plan B."

"And that was?"

"Luring Faith to the scene, using _her_ to cow Smith into a confession."

Greg stared at him. "Clearly _that_ plan didn't work out either."

"Clearly not."

"What happened?"

John shook his head. "She turned out to be a different woman than the woman Sherlock _claimed_ had come to the flat. Faith Smith... never even met him before today. Smith started laughing and... Sherlock just... lost it."

He turned his head to the screen on which the footage was still playing. John cringed as he saw Sherlock unravelling and losing control, ending up with Sherlock bumping into a tray and... not long after that, Sherlock lunging at Smith with a scalpel in his hands. Greg reached across to switch off the recording device, then leaned back in his chair with a tired sigh as he tilted his head back.

"Plan C?" he asked tiredly.

"Plan C had Sherlock faking a collapse so he'd end up in Smith's hospital. I'd then call you in for back up because..."

"Because what?" Greg asked, lifting his head again.

John sighed and buried his face in his hands. When he dragged his hands down, he gave Greg an apologetic look. "He was going to ask Culverton to kill him. He wanted to... catch him in the act, so to speak and get a confession from him at a time he'd be the most vulnerable.

"Fucking hell!" Greg exclaimed harshly.

There was a knock on the door and a female police officer came in. "Sir. You probably want to see this." She put an open laptop onto the desk. Greg and John leaned over to look at the screen as it showed a news bulletin.

" _Harold Chorley reporting earlier today. Mr Smith stated he had no interest in bringing charges."_

A clip was then shown, of Smith, in the mortuary, getting interviewed by a reporter. _"I'm a fan of Sherlock Holmes. I'm a_ _ **big**_ _fan,"_ Smith told the reporter. John frowned. It seemed so... odd.

" _I don't really know what happened today. To be honest, I don't think I'd be standing here now if it wasn't for Doctor Watson."_

John paled hearing those words. He lifted his right hand and he looked at his raw and bloody knuckles. He shook his head in dismay. He was not proud of what had happened...

SSS

"STOP LAUGHING AT ME!" Sherlock yelled at Smith, spit flying from his mouth. He lunged forward towards Smith with his right arm, the scalpel aimed at the man who was not even laughing.

"Sherlock!" John yelled.

Faith let out a brief scream as John acted on instinct and grappled Sherlock's lower arm with his left hand and turned his left shoulder into Sherlock's body. He then slammed the side of his hand down onto Sherlock's wrist, knocking the scalpel from his hand.

As it clattered noisily to the floor, he turned and seized Sherlock's coat with both hands and bundled him backwards across the room and slammed him hard into one of the cabinet doors. Sherlock grunted in pain.

"Stop it!" John yelled loudly in his face. He pulled Sherlock forward a little, then slammed him straight back against the cabinets again. Sherlock grunted and looked at John, surprise and shock evident in his eyes.

"Stop it. Now!" John yelled even louder, emphasising each word.

Smith, who had his hands still raised, stared at the two men in shock. So did Faith.

John glared furiously into Sherlock's face.

"What are you doing?!" he yelled and he slapped Sherlock hard across the face with his right hand.

"Wake up! You _bloody_ idiot! You are _ruining_ everything. Again!"

Suddenly John's right fist connected with Sherlock's jaw, hard! Crying out, Sherlock fell to the floor. Gasping, he propped himself up on his right arm, his nose now bleeding.

Rage filled John's face and erupted from his fists, as if a dormant volcano suddenly exploded to life, raining down fire and brimstone around it in furious wrath. "Is this..." John bent down and punched Sherlock in the face again. "... _a game?_ A bloody game?"

As Sherlock tried to struggle up, John instantly punched him back down, his face twisted in murderous rage. He then kicked Sherlock's body hard, then again.

Sherlock tried to shield his face as he groaned and coughed in pain, then started to gag when John's foot connected hard in his stomach.

John couldn't stop kicking his friend even though tears started to stream down his face. "I trusted you! _We_ trusted you, you worthless sack of shit! What was the point?! _What_ was the point, eh?!"

Suddenly two men, medical staff, seized his arms and dragged him backwards. John struggled against them because he was not done yet. Not by a long shot!

Smith walked forward, holding up his hands as he walked over towards where Sherlock was lying. "Please," Culverton Smith asked beseechingly. "Please, please, no violence."

The two men released John and didn't stop him as he took a few steps forward, looking down at Sherlock with a grim look on his face.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson, but I don't think he's a danger any more." Smith bent down to have a closer look at Sherlock.

John didn't look at him. His gaze was solely focussed on Sherlock, who braced himself on his right arm and left hand, gazing distantly at the floor. John swallowed away a harsh lump when he saw his best friend trembling on the floor. Bloodstained saliva was dripping from his mouth, his nose and mouth were smeared in blood and there was a deep bleeding cut on the inside of his left eyebrow.

Oh, God... He blinked in horror when he saw what he'd done. And he hated himself for it. No matter the stupidity of Sherlock's actions. No matter how badly John wanted to knock some sense into the guy... You just didn't kick a man who was already down, who'd reached rock bottom.

John breathed heavily; he felt sick to his stomach.

Smith looked up at him. "Leave him be."

"No," Sherlock said shakily. "No, it's-it's okay. Let him do what he wants, because he's right."

He raised his head a little. "He's entitled." He raised is head higher to make eye contact with John. "I _am_ a worthless sack of shit," he choked out.

John stepped forward a little, breathing sharply through his nose, staring down at his friend. His throat constricted and he almost broke down. "Yes, you are. The sad thing is, you don't _have_ to be. But you _choose_ to be. Every. Single. Time," he said, his voice tight against repressed tears. "It's not _just_ your own life you so easily tear down, Sherlock. It's time you get that through that thick skull of yours. Until you do, you're just that... a worthless sack of shit." His voice was barely audible as it broke on the last words.

He held Sherlock's gaze, breathing shakily through his nose. Sherlock looked up at him.

"I maybe that, but I _am_ right about _this_ , John," he said, his voice pleading. "Please."

The look on Sherlock's face nearly broke John's heart. It was the look of a man who's life was slowly but irrevocably falling apart... by his own doing. Sherlock's eyes slowly filled with tears as he gazed up at John with the most heart rendering look John had ever seen in another human being. It was the look of hope slowly crushed to death.

John stared at him for a little longer, then slowly turned around, wiping his left hand under his nose as he walked away, wondering how the hell he was going to explain this to Kyrie.

"I'm right about this John!" Sherlock cried after him. "I'm- I'm _not_ wrong. Not about this. Not about _him_. John! JOHN!"

SSS

John blinked his tears away and he tried to concentrate on what was happening on the screen of the laptop.

"Is it true he's being treated in your hospital?" a female reporter asked Smith.

"It's not actually my hospital... Well, it is a _little_ bit my hospital..." He smiled at the reporter. "... Uh, but I can promise you this... He's going to get the best of care. I might even move him to my _favourite_ room."

John frowned as Smith smarmily smiled into the camera.

"Culverton Smith earlier today," the newsreader said as the footage showed Smith, raising a cheery thumb up to the camera. "In Nottingham..."

The police officer stopped the footage and took the laptop away, leaving the room.

Silence hung heavy in the room for a long moment. John sat back in his chair, looking down at his right hand, flexing it.

"He's right, you know. You probably saved his life," Greg said. An ttempt to cheer him up, maybe?

John remained silent. He just, kept staring at his hand, repeatedly flexing it.

"I really hit him, Greg," he finally said after a long time, his voice soft and harsh at the same time. Unable to hide his misery any longer, he looked up at Greg and showed him his raw and bloody knuckles. "Hit him hard," he choked out.

Greg looked at him. "We all want to punch his face from time to time," he said, in an attempt at a joke. "He does deserve it sometimes."

John pressed his trembling lips together. "No..." he said on a shuddering sigh, his voice tiny. "... not that."

Greg looked away from him, his cheeks a shade redder than before. "What now?"

John pondered the question for a moment. "I, er, I will go to the hospital. Leave him his... little present... as he requested. Least I can do, I guess. One last indulgence."

He breathed in harshly when he looked at Greg. "I shouldn't have let him go on like that, Greg. I should have dragged him to the hospital by his ears, the moment Kyrie woke up. This... _mad_ plan of his... Making everyone think he was insane with grief over her death, just to entrap a man like..." he chuckled humourlessly. "Culverton Smith."

He shook his head sadly. "So much time wasted. So many months apart when all they really needed was... each other. Not... not this... mayhem."

"How is she?" Greg inquired in a low voice.

"Better," John said, nodding his head and smiling a little. "Much better. I just... don't know how to explain this one to her. Sherlock... Sherlock was falling apart and made some stupid decisions again. So, this one's on me, because _I_ should have known better."

He chuckled again. "I really don't know _how_ she does it." John dropped the smile. "She brings out the best in him, but also the worst when she's not there. God help us..." he gulped. "God help us all if he should ever really lose her."

"He'd burn England," Greg said grimly.

"He'd burn the world."


	103. How to Catch a Serial Killer

**A/N I was really tired last night and couldn't focus on a last needed edit before updating. Sorry if you guys were waiting for it.**

 **DreamonAlina This chapter should answer some of your questions. The 'He'd burn the world' was actually part of a different conversation that will not be added in the story because of how I switched things around. Let's just say I've been waiting for a moment to still be able to use that bit! He really has a darker side to him that we like to oversee. Like him shooting someone point blank in the face. He's dangerous. And losing Kyrie like that would definitely send him over the edge.**

 **Companion Teresa I hope that by now your heart has restarted again?**

 **EllemichelleP What, you didn't REALLY think I would could her off, right?**

 **Thewickedprinces Yes, John's demons caught up with him there. Glad you liked the intensity.**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 John's actions will definitely come back to haunt him. Yes, I could have gotten rid of that scene entirely, but I didn't want to. Sherlock faking his way into the hospital would negate all the emotional impact. Like 'Oh, thank goodness... it was all just a dream'. Yes, John beating the crap out of Sherlock was very wrong indeed and he realises this as well. And now he has to face Kyrie about it as well...**

 **Guest Yes, John and Mary were acting. More about that revealed in this chapter and also in a later chapter.**

 **Purplestan I'm sad that your other favourite story was deleted. Which one was it? It makes me curious now. And also sad I will not be able to read it. Thank you for letting me know this is now your go to nr 1. Sherlock fic. I feel a bit proud now!**

 **Artemis7448 Well, you are right about one thing. Kyrie will absolutely make a comeback once everything is sorted!**

 **Jane S. Gold Kyrie is not happy about it when she first sees Sherlock again. I will go into 'epilogue' territory after TFP. I doubt there will even be a fifth season and I want to give this story a proper ending.**

 **Kuppcake. Thank you. It was very intense to write, but I loved the emotions. It shows how lowly Sherlock thinks of himself at that point for him to feel he deserves the abuse. And John realises he has some issues he still needs to deal with.**

 **Anyway, the update is finally here. Enjoy!**

SSS

John was standing in the hospital room, looking down on the still form of his friend. Had he really done this much damage to him, all in his anger? Kyrie would flay the skin off his back! Once she was completely done with physical therapy, that was.

Sherlock had an IV catheter in his hand and received an intravenous infusion of drugs to keep him sedated, his eyes were closed. A steady beeping was heard. His blood pressure was really low, but at least he was stable.

John leaned forward on his old walking cane, his shoulders hunched.

Suddenly the door opened and Nurse Cornish walked in. "Oh, hi," she said with an easy smile. She closed the door behind her and John fixed his eyes back on Sherlock.

"Just in to say hello?" she asked, walking to the side of the bed.

"Keeping a promise," he said, his voice tight.

"Aw, that's nice. He'll pull through, you know. No need to worry."

John smiled briefly, while his eyes remained on Sherlock.

"Yeah, he's made a bit of mess of himself, but he's awfully strong. He looks way worse than he actually is. I don't even think the gossip is justified."

"Gossip?"

"About him. Having merely weeks to live because... you know."

"Hm."

After a long moment, John dragged his eyes away from his friend. "Well..."

Clearing his throat, he walked towards a chair near the left side of the bed and he held up the cane to show to the nurse. "My promise." He braced it against the back of the chair.

"Oh, how nice... A walking stick," she said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

"Yeah, it was mine from... a long time ago."

She smiled awkwardly at him. He nodded at her, then turned to walk away. Just then the phone on the bedside table started to ring. Nurse Cornish cleared her throat, picked it up and held it to her ear as John turned back round again and opened the door.

"Hello? Ward seventy-three."

John stepped out and was about to close the door, when the nurse called out for him. "Oh, uh, Doctor Watson?"

He pushed the door open again and looked in. "Hm?"

"It's for you."

John frowned, then sighed in exasperation, knowing exactly who was on the other end of the line. He briskly walked back into the room and took the phone which the nurse held across the bed to him. John put the phone to his ear. "Hello, Mycroft."

" _There's a car downstairs."_

Those were Mycroft's only words before he broke the connection.

SSS

The black car pulled up at the kerb near 221B and John got out. He walked towards the front door and once inside, he climbed the stairs. As he approached the first floor landing, John noticed a man walking across the landing into the living room and another man crossing the room just inside. He heard Mycroft's voice coming from inside the living room.

"Where _is_ she?"

John stepped inside, ducking under a string that was attached to the back of the door, and saw Mycroft sitting in Sherlock's chair, his eternal umbrella leaning against the right arm of the chair.

"Where's Mrs Hudson?" Mycroft clarified his question.

"She'll be up in a moment," one of his agents replied while another one started the process of taking down the string.

"Uh, what are you doing?" John asked Mycroft.

"Have you noticed the kitchen?" He stood up as John looked around the living room before turning towards the kitchen. "It's practically a meth lab and I don't remember 'a meth lab' being part of the plan. I'm trying to establish exactly _what_ drove Sherlock off the rails.

John didn't reply. He was looking at someone who was twirling a small brush covered in black powder over a knife lying on top of photographs and press articles about Smith.

"Any idea?" Mycroft prodded when John remained silent.

"Are these spooks?" John asked, gesturing at the various people in the flat. There was another agent pulling a book from the small table in the corner of the room behind John's chair, accidentally knocking over a book about making home made pasta. Kyrie's.

"Are you using spooks now to look after your family?" John turned his head to the kitchen again and saw one of the spooks putting items from the table into a large plastic evidence bag.

"Hang on – are they tidying?"

Mycroft turned round to look at John, the expression on his face dripping with disdain. "You'd rather have Kyrie come home to _this_ waste dump? Have her clean up this... this mess while... while she shouldn't be lifting something heavier than her tea cup when she finally gets here?"

He glared at John and rubbed his hand over his face. "Besides that, Sherlock is a security concern. The fact that I'm his brother changes nothing."

John glanced at one of the agents in the living room taking a flash photograph, walking around the room taking more photographs. "Yeah, you said that before."

"Why fixate on Culverton Smith? He's had his obsessions before, of course, but this goes a bit further than setting a mantrap for Father Christmas."

Mycroft then sighed and closed his eyes. "I really believed him you know. I wanted to. Did everything he asked. And now, as it turns out..." He breathed out sharply through his nose. "... spending all night talking to a woman who wasn't even there."

"I know, Mycroft. I believed him too."

Mycroft raised his head and looked down his nose at John, but then turned his head as Mrs Hudson stomped into the room, her face filled with barely contained anger.

"Mycroft Holmes!"

He sighed silently and lowered his head.

"I can't believe you did this to me _again_! Telling me our Kyrie had died while all this time she was still alive! You couldn't even tell it to my face! And what in Heaven's name for? And what _are_ all these dreadful people doing in my house?"

Mycroft raiseda conciliatory hand to her. "Mrs Hudson, I apologise for the interruption. As you know, my brother has embarked on a programme of self-destruction remarkable even by _his_ standards, and I am endeavouring to find out what triggered it."

" _Why_ did you tell me that Kyrie had died?" she raged. "Do you have _any_ idea how it made me feel when I wasn't even invited to her cremation ceremony? Though, I guess, that does make sense... now!"

He looked uncomfortable and cleared his throat. "Because Sherlock had a 'plan' to reveal the true nature of Culverton Smith. He was supposed to 'fake' going off the rails, not to _actually_ go off the rails. For that to work, everyone had to believe that Kyrie had passed away. When she awoke from her coma, she only remained in the hospital long enough for her wound to be properly healed. After that, we 'leaked' the news of her death while we had her brought over to a private facility so she could further recover and receive physical therapy."

Mycroft gave Mrs Hudson a pointed look. " _You_ helped sell to the world that Sherlock was going insane with grief by speeding down the roads in your Aston Martin, with Sherlock handcuffed and locked in the boot of your car, dumping his arse on the door mat of a therapist. I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson, but you'd never have taken such drastic measures if you hadn't truly believed Sherlock was going off the rails."

He swallowed. "In hindsight, he _was_ going off the rails anyway, so maybe we could have spared you that grief after all. My apologies."

Mrs Hudson folded her arms and gave him a cross look. "Your apology is noted. Whether I accept it remains to be seen. So, the real reason why Sherlock went off the deep end, that's what you're all looking for? What's on his mind?"

"So to speak."

"And you've had all this time? All these months?"

"Time being something of which we don't have an infinite supply..." Mycroft said and he included John in his gaze. "... so if we could be about our business?" He smiled falsely at her.

MrsHudson started to giggle. "You are..." she continued laughing.

Mycroft furrowed his brows at John.

"... you're-you're so funny, you are!" Mrs Hudson covered her mouth with her hand, still laughing.

Mycroft gave her a puzzled look. "Mrs Hudson?"

Mrs Hudson gestured out towards the direction of the hospital. "He thinks you're clever. Poor old Sherlock, always going on about you."

She turned to John and put both hands on his arm. "I mean, he _knows_ you're an idiot, but that's okay 'cause you're a lovely doctor..."

Mrs Hudson then turned to Mycroft while John's eyes flickered as he tried to process that remark.

"... but he has no idea what an idiot _you_ are!"

Mycroft frowned at her. "Is this merely stream-of-consciousness abuse, or are you attempting to make a point?"

The landlady of 221B Baker Street gave him a bright look. "You want to know what's bothering Sherlock? Easiest thing in the world; anyone can do it. And Kyrie can do it the best of all."

" _I_ know his thought processes better than any other human being, so _please_ try to understand..." Mycroft began pompously, until Mrs Hudson's giggling interrupted him.

"He's not about _thinking_ , not Sherlock."

"Of _course_ he is."

"No, no. He's more... emotional, isn't he?"

She turned to face the wall behind the sofa. "Unsolved case: shoot the wall." She pointed the fingers of her right hand and mimicked firing a gun at it. "Pew! Pew!"

She turned towards the kitchen. "Unmade breakfast: karate the fridge!" Mrs Hudson mimicked doing a karate chop with her left hand. "That of course, was _long_ before Kyrie. She _always_ made him breakfast whether he wanted to or not."

She then turned to the mantelpiece. "Unanswered question, something he can't solve or fix..."

Mrs Hudson turned to John. "Well, what does he do with anything he can't answer, can't figure out, can't... fix?"

John looked towards the fireplace as she spoke, then looked back at her. "He stabs it."

He unfolded his arms and walked towards the fireplace while she made a triumphant gesture and turned to Mycroft.

"Anything he can't find the answer for..." Mrs Hudson pointed two fingers towards the mantelpiece. "... bang... it's up there."

He focused in on the knife, stabbed into a photograph and pulled the knife out of it. He then picked up the photograph and put down the knife back on the mantelpiece. He stared at the picture.

"I keep telling him, if he was any good as a detective, _I_ wouldn't need a new mantel," Mrs Hudson continued.

John walked back over to Mrs Hudson and showed her the photograph. It was a photograph taken at John and Mary's wedding. Sherlock had an arm slipped around her waist, Kyrie pulled close to him. Her hand seemed to be on his back. They looked at each other. Kyrie's lips slightly parted in surprise, Sherlock's lips curled up in humoured smile. Kyrie had a mild surprised and adoring look in her eyes. The look in Sherlock's eyes couldn't be seen however. The knife had been stabbed there several times.

"It's a picture of him and Kyrie," Mycroft said, his voice betraying he didn't understand. "But... why? She didn't die. She's alive and she's... relatively well."

"It's not _grief_ , Mycroft!" Mrs Hudson said, rolling her eyes. "It's _guilt_. Yes, Kyrie is alive but she caught a bullet that was meant for him. And she nearly died because of it. He was trying to _fix_ himself, for her. Stupid clod is still too thick to realise that all he needs for that... is _her_ firmly by his side."

She tutted sadly looking at the photograph. "Such a shame though. That picture always was his favourite..."

John stared at the photograph for a long moment. He frowned... And suddenly felt all the blood drain from his face.

Favourite.

" _Let me show you my favourite room"_

Smith's favourite room was the mortuary!

Favourite.

" _I might even put him in my favourite room."_

Sherlock had been right after all! Drugged up or not, imagined night out with Faith or not... Sherlock had been right about Smith all along! And John had just left his best friend at the mercy of a serial killer!

"Mycroft," he said in a low voice. "Call Lestrade. We need to go to the hospital as in right now! Sherlock _was_ right. Maybe not about everything, but certainly about Culverton Smith. And... if we don't hurry up... Kyrie will end up being a widow after all."

SSS

He was drifting, slowly floating downwards, then crashed through the surface of water. He opened his eyes as he pushed through the body of water, emerging dry on the other side. He turned around to look behind him and saw... nothing.

Well, not nothing just... nothing that made sense. Broken pieces of statues and sculptures seemed to float aimlessly through the air or space around him. Here and there he saw a crumpled wall or a lonely door just, standing there, leading to nothing.

A blur of burgundy nearby drew his attention. His lips curled in a tired smile, his heart perked up.

"Kyrie!"

She did not look up and he noticed... no sound had passed his lips. Though Sherlock couldn't feel anything, he noticed that a light breeze toyed with Kyrie's golden mane, soft curls tumbling over her shoulder.

A hand reached up, winding a loose curl around its fingers. She smiled down, a loving gaze shining in her eyes. They were sparkling violet.

"No! Kyrie!" He wanted to yell. Who was she smiling at?

She didn't hear him. But he could hear her laugh, soft and warm. The hand reached up and curled behind her neck, bringing her face down. Her lips parted in anticipation.

"No!" He started to run, but every step took him further away instead of closer until she disappeared.

He turned around, dazed, trying to find her again. There was nothing there he could use for orientation so he just started walking. And walking. Straight ahead, one direction. No idea how long he kept stumbling along.

Suddenly he saw his armchair, his own armchair in their flat. And he was sitting in it. He stopped abruptly and took in his own appearance... Dressed in a fresh shirt and pants, his camel dressing gown wrapped around him to hide how much weight he'd lost. Showered for the occasion. The failed attempt to shave himself... He knew when this was.

This was the morning after he had spent the night out with Faith, or so he'd thought. Right after he'd had a bad trip on Billy's coffee. Probably nearly OD'd. It was when he realised he couldn't walk this path alone, by himself. He needed his friends and he'd sent them a text.

Sherlock looked down at himself. He turned around, his back facing his armchair and he saw John and Mary sitting in front of him. It seemed as though this moment was frozen in time, until Sherlock lowered himself and took his own place. His body suddenly arched up and he gasped, his eyes widening. He then briefly closed his eyes and when he opened them again, he was back in that particular moment of time...

Sherlock looked up and saw John and Mary staring at him. Neither of them seemed too impressed.

John was sitting in his armchair, right across from Sherlock and Mary had pulled over a client chair.

Too their credit, they had come over within fifteen minutes after he had sent them both a text...

\- Come at once if convenient.

\- If inconvenient, come anyway. SH

He'd sent the texts as a bit of a joke. Hoping it would lighten the mood a bit. Instead, they were just sitting here and neither of them had spoken a single word to him since they'd stepped inside and sat down.

Sherlock breathed out slowly. He didn't quite know how to begin. In the end, John decided to break the silence.

"Do you..." he said, slowly and very precisely. "... have _any_ idea, how often the hospital has tried to contact you? How often Mycroft has tried to call you? How often _we've_ tried to call you?"

At the word 'hospital', Sherlock's head snapped up. He was immediately alert and his stomach roiled with anxiety. "Kyrie?" he rasped.

They didn't elaborate. Clearly they wanted an explanation first for his 'unavailability'.

"I um... wasn't in a very good place, as you probably have guessed already."

"Mm." It was the only sound John produced. Mary just stared at him with angry eyes, her lips pursed. Her eyes kept drifting to his trembling hands.

"Yes. I've done drugs. And... I'm-I'm not proud of it. I did the one thing I know that Kyrie would _not_ want me to do. Yesterday..." he paused and put trembling fingers to his forehead. "I may have accidentally nearly OD'd. I er, underestimated the strength of Billy's coffee and candy."

John gave him a look.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I was candy flipping on a string." He sighed. "LSD and cocaine."

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mary sighed. He cringed hearing the disappointment in her voice.

"Kyrie?" he asked, his voice soft.

John looked upwards and sighed deeply. He then lowered his head and gave Sherlock a pointed look. "She came to, Sherlock. She's awake."

He could feel the blood drain from his face. The walls that held him up, his defences, just... collapsed. Sherlock buried his face in his right hand. Though he made no sound at all, silent sobs punched through with the force of a wrecking ball, ripping through his muscles, bones, his guts.

With every sob his shoulders heaved with emotion and he could feel his heart yank in and out of his chest. In-out, in-out. Like a yo yo. His left hand opened and closed, rhythmically clenching as if there could be some physical solution to this emotional onslaught, if only he could find it.

Suddenly, his pent up wretchedness was no longer shared alone. Mary placed a hand over his and John was standing next to him, hand on his shoulder. They reached into his hollowness and pulled back up the supporting beams of his defence.

Sherlock breathed harshly and he felt very self-conscious. He took in another shuddering breath and leaned back in his chair. John and Mary took this as the correct cues to pull back from him and retreat to their seats in silence.

"When?" he croaked, his voice thick. He sniffed back a small amount of watery snot that he did not want to escape from his flaring nostrils.

"Yesterday evening, around ten PM."

"How is she?"

"Good, relatively speaking I mean. She was very confused and um... it can take a few days before she becomes fully aware. She'll start to come round for a few moments at a time as the dosage of sedatives will be lowered. So, she'll still be sleeping a lot. Neurological tests so far seem very positive. Give her a few months and..." his voice trailed off.

A wave of relief washed over him and threatened to crush him and pull him under. He simply nodded his head.

"I need your help..." he said. "... with a case."

Both Mary and John gaped at him.

"Excuse me?" Mary said and Sherlock could tell she was on the verge of exploding.

"John, Mary... Trust me when I say I would want nothing more than to rush over to the hospital and see Kyrie, awake, with my own two eyes. But, I can't. I can't let her see me, not like this. I need time. And basically, you just said that she needs time as well."

Neither of them looked too sure about his answer.

"I... fell into a bottomless pit. I just kept falling and falling with no hope of ever climbing out."

Mary gave him a sad look, her eyes glistening with tears.

"Even my mind was failing me. It was as if it was tearing itself apart. But, even though, admittedly, I'm experiencing some problems keeping up with my brain, my skills of observation and deduction remain unaltered. I need you to know – I need you to see that up here..." He gestured to his temples with both hands... "I've still got it, so when I tell you that this..." Sherlock gestured to the dinner table and pointed to his open laptop, it was showing a web page of Culverton Smith.

"... is the most dangerous, the most despicable human being that I have _ever_ encountered; when I tell you that this-this _monster_ _**must**_ be ended, I really need you to believe me and... help me on this one."

Sherlock struggled up and rested his arms on his knees, his hands dropping limply between his legs, his shoulders hunched. "I'm a wreck. I've been in hell and... I want... I _need_ to find reason, justification, for the mess I created myself. Last night, I was about to dismiss a case that _could_ potentially have resulted in a tragic suicide."

Mary gasped in a breath of air, John shot him a worried look. "Sherlock," he asked in a quiet tone. "What happened? And... do you realise... who that man is, you are showing on your laptop?"

"I took the case, that's what happened," Sherlock said. His nostrils flared when he raised his eyes to meet John's. "And I know exactly who that... that _creature_ is! A rotting _thing;_ a living breathing coagulation of human evil, and if the only thing I ever do in this world is drive him out of it, then my life will not have been wasted and my latest lapse in judgement, I hope, redeemed."

He took a breath and he rolled his jaw, not sure of how to continue. "I- I made a promise that I would never again face a criminal on my own. In this instance, I'm afraid I have no other choice. But, I can't do this _all_ by myself. I can't walk this path alone."

"Sherlock," Mary began and she pointed at the picture of Culverton Smith. "What has _he_ done? And are you absolutely, a hundred percent sure? Because you are picking a fight with another prominent figure here."

"I am absolutely convinced that man is a serial killer. And he has the money, the power and the influence to quietly go about his ways undetected."

"So, what's your plan then?" John asked. "How do you intend to catch a _serial killer_?"

He breathed out a raspy breath. He'd already given it a lot of thought. He swallowed and gave his friends a determined look.

"I'll call Mycroft because for all intents and purposes, Kyrie will have to die. Once she has recovered sufficiently that is and it's safe for her to be moved. We'll need Molly on this as well. Billy too. And you... You two will go into therapy. You'll need help after all, dealing with the death of a dear friend. Cause... that's what you people do, don't you? Get therapy?"

He jumped from his chair, his mind racing, setting up the domino's that would ultimately lead to the fall of Culverton Smith.

"In the meantime, Kyrie will be brought to a private facility where she can recover further, rehabilitate in privacy while the media will be told that she died, because Sherlock Holmes is going to reach rock bottom. Wife dead, back on drugs..."

He gestured at John and Mary. "... fallen out with known friends and associates. Sherlock Holmes will tear himself down."

"Sherlock?" Mary said, worry seeping through in her voice.

He walked back to his armchair, wearily set himself down and breathed out another shuddering breath. "I will destroy myself and... I'll ask him to kill me. And that's how we catch a serial killer. Because he won't be able to resist."

Mary and John gave each other a brief look before they both lifted their chins in a similar way. "Where do we start?" they asked simultaneously. Sherlock grinned at them. It started small, but the grin soon split his face in half. The game was on! And then...? He closed his eyes, his lips parting in anticipation. Then he'd bring home his wife.


	104. Off We Pop!

**A/N I hope by now all of your questions have been answered. The boys (and Mary) will be looking back on the events next chapter so if you have any questions left, something that wasn't clear perhaps... let me know and I'll try to add it to their conversation.**

 **Purplestan. Glad you liked the chapter. I hope you'll like this one better. It was very intense and thrilling to write! Ugh, hate reviews. Nasty to get because it can make you doubt yourself as a writer. Really sad the author felt the need to suspend her account. Maybe she's on another website as well? AO3 maybe? Wattpad?**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Poor Billy, he just didn't take the lower tolerance into consideration. I know that a few things in my spin on the story also asks for suspension of disbelief. Hopefully you didn't have to suspend it across the Grand Canyon. You once told me I'd do you a service of a life time if I'd manage to flip TLD around in a good way. I really hope I succeeded in that. There is still a bit left of this episode of course. Cake!**

 **Artemis7448 Glad you think it was worth the wait. Can't wait to read what you think of this chapter!**

 **Companion Teresa Hopefully this episode lived up to your expectations as well!**

 **DreamonAlina No Kyrie yet. Though I loved writing this chapter, and the next, Kyrie is still not in it. But don't worry, she will be back soon and I'm pretty sure you will still love the next chapter. I know I do!**

 **SSS**

Sherlock woke to the sound of a noisy breath. Strange... First he'd been in the remnants of his Mind Palace. Then he'd been back in that moment he'd called over John and Mary, told them about his plan and learned that Kyrie had woken up.

And then he saw her. Clear as day. As if she was standing there right in front of him, for real. Achingly beautiful as ever. He lifted his fingers to trace the outline of her delicate cheekbones and he chuckled and sobbed at the same time in relief when he could feel her. Not... really... feel her of course, but, it seemed real enough.

He yearned to kiss her and feel the soft press of her lips against his. He'd longed for her for so long now and Kyrie, his sweet Kyrie, she simply tilted her head and offered her lips for him to capture. And right before his lips were about to deliciously cover hers, she made this noisy breath.

It took him a moment to realise it was not her making the sound... but someone else.

Sherlock opened his eyes, blinked a few times and discovered that the vision in his left eye was blurry.

"You've been ages waking up. I watched you. It's quite lovely in its way."

Sherlock swallowed hard when he recognised the voice. He looked towards Smith, sitting in a chair nearby.

"Take it easy. It's okay. Don't want to rush this. You're Sherlock Holmes," Smith said, his voice soft.

"How did you get in?" Sherlock asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Smith raised himself to his feet and walked closer to the bed, pointing towards the door. "Policeman outside, you mean? Come on. Can't you guess?"

Sherlock turned his gaze towards the wooden panel opposite the bed. "Secret door," he said softly.

Smith looked up and twirled a finger to indicate their surroundings. "I built this whole wing. Kept firing the architect and builders so no-one knew quite h-how it all fitted together. I can slip in and out anywhere I like, you know... when I get the urge."

"H. H. Holmes," Sherlock responded, referring to Smith's _favourite_ serial killer.

"Murder castle, but done right. I have a question for you. Why are you here? It's like you walked into my den and laid down in front of me."

Sherlock lowered his eyes. His brain felt muddy, sandy, slow. Why _was_ he here? To catch a serial killer of course. Alone? No! Not alone! He-he had back up. And he had backup plans. Good... Great... What are they?

He swallowed. He... couldn't remember. But-but John! He'd brought the walking cane. Just like he'd asked. Surely that meant...?

"Why?" Smith pressed.

Sherlock's eyes briefly flickered to meet Smith's gaze, then he lowered them again. "You know why I'm here," he said in a raspy voice. He blinked when he noticed the sadness in it.

"I'd like to hear you say it." Smith smiled briefly at him. "Say it for me, please."

He fixed his gaze on the toady man and boldly pressed on. "I want you to kill me."

A broad wicked smile curled up Smith's lips, revealing the monster he carefully kept hidden. He moved to the side of the bed and put his gloved left hand on it, very close to Sherlock's hand as it rested on the blanket.

"If you increase the dosage four or five times..." Sherlock told him without any emotion in his voice at all, "... toxic shock should shut me down within about an hour."

Smith looked over towards the drip, straightened himself up and started to walk around the foot of the bed. "Then I restore the settings. Everyone assumes it was a fault, or you just gave up the ghost," he said contemplatively, then smiled.

"Yes," Sherlock said, while tracking Smith's every move with his eyes.

"You're rather good at this," the man said as he took off his jacket.

Usually this was a moment that Sherlock would make a scathing remark. After recent events, he did not feel inclined at all to comment.

"Before we start..." Smith dropped his jacket onto the chair near the drip stand. "... tell me how you feel." He reached to the shirt cuff on his left hand and took out the cufflink.

"I... feel scared," Sherlock admitted. It was true. He was actually feeling terrified right now. He couldn't remember his backup plans.

Smith scoffed quietly. "Be more specific." He chuckled a bit. "You only get to do this the once."

"I'm... scared of dying." That was true as well. No matter how often he'd defied death, it didn't mean he didn't fear it. Specially now, with so very much to come back to. Even if he hadn't seen Kyrie in several months now, because he had no idea how to face her after what had happened. Even so, she gave him every reason to fight and come back. So yes, he _was_ afraid of dying.

"You wanted this though," Smith said, regarding him as he started to roll up his shirtsleeves.

"I have... reasons."

"The late Kyrie Holmes?"

Sherlock swallowed hard and tried to keep his bottom lip from trembling. "Yes."

"But you don't actually _want_ to die."

"No."

Smith smiled his monster smile at him. "Good." He kept smiling at Sherlock as he continued to roll up his sleeves. "Say that for me. Say it."

Sherlock frowned slightly and at first his lips refused to form the words. Where the hell was John? "I don't want to die."

Looking at his left sleeve, Smith started to roll that one up as well. "And again."

"I don't want to die," Sherlock said, his voice firm and precise this time.

Smith turned his gaze back to Sherlock as he rolled his right sleeve even higher. "Once more for luck," he said, dropping his voice to a whisper.

Cold fear settled deep inside of him. He didn't want to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to grow old with Kyrie at his side. Have children. He wanted it all.

Sherlock Holmes who had always considered himself to be married to his work. Sherlock Holmes who had once believed that a romantic relationship, though fulfilling for others, had no appeal for him. Sherlock Holmes who now wanted everything that life had to offer him, including love.

He'd learned his lesson. Life was too precious to put on the line for no other reason than boredom. He clenched his eyes shut because he knew he used to be _that_ callous and unthinking... willing to swallow a pill that might kill him, just to prove how clever he was.

"I don't want to die," he said, his voice breaking. "I don't..."

He didn't feel clever now. He felt alone. He felt terrified. The only beacon of hope that kept him going, was John's walking cane. If there was one thing about John he was sure of, is that he would never risk a life if there was even the tiniest of chances that Sherlock was right. Even _if_ John believed he was just full of bullshit right now.

Sherlock paused as Smith stepped closer to his bed and leaned over him.

"... don't want to die."

Smith leaned so close that his face was mere inches above Sherlock's. "Lovely," Smith whispered intensely. He twitched a smile at Sherlock then straightened up. "Here it comes."

Sherlock held his breath when Smith reached a finger to the control panel next to the drip stand. He pressed the button twice, beeping noisily each time he pressed it. He reached to another button and started to press it repeatedly.

Sherlock swallowed hard and repressed the urge to look at John's walking cane. He'd be in time. Of course he would. Good old John. And then... then, Kyrie would come back.

Sherlock's gaze briefly flickered sideways as a drop of liquid dripped down from the bag on the stand. He then looked back, watching Smith as he slowly walked around the foot of the bed.

"So tell me. Why are we doing this? To what do I owe the pleasure?" Smith asked him.

"I just wanted to hear your confession. Needed to know I was right."

"But why do you need to die?"

"The mortuary. Your favourite room. You talk to the dead. You make your confession to them. My life is wasted and no longer matters. So, I just... want to know."

Smith sniffed, straightened up, then rubbed his nose and turned away towards the chair, shaking his head.

"Why do you do it?" Sherlock asked him, his voice soft but intense. So close! And John would come. Was probably on his way this moment. Lestrade in tow.

Smith sat down in the chair. "Why do I kill? It's-It's not about hatred or-or revenge. I'm not a dark person. It's... Killing human beings..."

He lowered his head and chuckled silently for several long seconds, putting the back of his hand to his mouth as if he wanted to prevent any sound from escaping while he was laughing quietly "... it-it just makes me..." Smith let out a long contented sigh, ".. incredibly happy."

Sherlock's lips twitched slightly, forming the ghost of a smile. _Got you, you bastard!_ Now he just had to stay alive long enough for John to arrive with the police.

Smith's smile slowly faded and he breathed out a hard breath through his nose as he stood up. He walked over to the bed and leaned his hands on the blanket. Sherlock kept a wary eye on him.

Now that he'd got what he wanted, what he'd set out to do... He really, really _didn't_ want to die by the hands of this... monster!

"You know i-i-in films when-when you see dead people pretending to be dead and it's just living people lying down?" He shook his head. _"_ That's not what dead people look like."

Sherlock's eyes widened at his words and he kept his gaze fixed on him. Smith's voice and gaze both got increasingly intense. "Dead people look like _things_. I like to make people into _things_. Then you can own them."

He huffed out a laugh and straightened up. "You know what? I'm getting a little impatient."

Smith bent to the foot of the bed and pressed a button on the side. Sherlock started a bit when the top of the bed lowered down to the horizontal position. Sherlock could feel cold sweat prickle on the skin of his back. No! No! He didn't want to die. He _wasn't_ going to die. His eyes turned to the door. John? Where the hell was John?

Once the bed was flat, Smith straightened up and bared his crooked and yellow teeth as he looked down at Sherlock, running his tongue along his bottom lip, practically salivating at the prospect. He then slowly walked around to the other side of the bed, savouring each step. This... this was his foreplay, Sherlock realised.

Smith pulled at the glove on his right hand and leaned down towards Sherlock. "Take a big breath if you want," he said on a whisper.

Sherlock blinked, unable to answer, but his gaze flickered to Smith's hands. How long could he fend of Smith? How long could he hold his breath? Long enough for John to show up? He _was_ still coming... right?

He gasped in a deep breath of air as Smith put his right palm over his mouth and pressed down hard, then covered his nose with his left hand.

Sherlock writhed in bed and struggled against the firm grip of Smith's surprisingly strong hands.

"Murder is a very difficult addiction to manage. People don't realise how much work goes into it. You have to be careful," Smith told Sherlock as he stared down, looking intently at his face, savouring every second of suffocating the life from him.

Sherlock's eyes widened in fear and he grabbed Smith's lower right arm, flailing weakly with his other hand, trying to dislodge him. He looked up into Smith's eyes and saw how they burned with relish and delight as his lungs started to burn with pain.

"... but if-if you're rich or famous and _loved_ , it's amazing what people are prepared to ignore."

Smith's voice started to shake with effort, resisting his struggles while he fought to stay alive.

"There's always someone desperate, about to go missing and _no one_ wants to suspect murder if it's easier to suspect something else!"

Despite the burning pain in his lungs, Sherlock continued to thrash and buck underneath his attacker, digging his fingers into Smith's hands, trying to dislodge him. Sweat pearled on his forehead and the edge of his vision went dark.

"I just have to ration myself; choose the right heart to stop."

So hard, he couldn't... couldn't keep this up. He was already much weaker than usual and taking drugs again had taken his toll. This... this couldn't be the end. Not like this. He kept struggling. Each second was another second that John could still turn up.

"Please, maintain eye contact. Maintain eye contact," Smith implored, whispering, his voice intense.

Sherlock stared up at him and feebly tried to pry Smith's fingers away as he was slowly losing consciousness.

"Maintain eye contact. Please. I like to watch it... happen," Smith whispered even quieter, but just as intense as he stared down at Sherlock. He leaned down even closer and bared his teeth at him. His gaze turned ecstatic. "And off we... po-pop."

 _Kyrie... I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I-I can't... can't breath._

His eyes started to glaze, his lids grew heavy, his eyes began to close.

He stopped moving, had no strength left to fend off Smith. The sound of a long single tone vaguely registered somewhere in his brain. Suddenly the suffocating pressure on his mouth and nose disappeared and in a reflex Sherlock noisily hauled in a long painful breath. As his lungs filled with air, enriching his blood with oxygen, the heart monitor started to blip again.

Sherlock weakly flailed on the bed, clutching at his heart that still struggled to find the right rhythm.

"Mr Holmes! You okay?" someone asked him. Sherlock's mind was still hazy and at the moment he couldn't recall who the voice belonged to. It didn't matter.

There was a sound of struggling somewhere near the bed.

"What were you doing to him? _What_ were you _doing_?!"

John! It was John! And he sounded positively enraged. Sherlock tried to smile but his muscles wouldn't cooperate.

"He's in distress! I-I'm helping him!"

More sounds of shuffling and struggling.

Finally, Sherlock regained enough control to blink open his eyes. He was still panting for breath though, trying to satiate his entire body and all of his organs with some much needed oxygen.

"Restrain him, _now_. Do it." John ordered someone. Police officers no doubt, judging his words.

"I was trying to help him!"

"Sherlock, what was he doing to you?"

He answered a bit breathlessly. "Suffocating me, overdosing me." He pointed weakly towards the drug stand.

"On what?"

"Saline."

"Saline?"

"Yeah, saline."

He propped himself up onto his right elbow, his breathing still hard and ragged. He could feel his hospital gown gape open at the back. Bit awkward... With his left hand he reached to the panel at the side of the bed and held down the button to raise the head of the bed.

"What d'you mean, saline?" John asked him, looking and sounding equally puzzled. He went over to have a closer look at the drip bag. Sherlock groaned and breathed out shakily. Smith's worried look towards John's back didn't go entirely unnoticed. He couldn't help himself, his lips curled into a relieved smile.

"Well obviously I got Nurse Cornish to switch the bags. She's a big fan, you know? _Loves_ my blog." He tried to give John a cheeky grin but only managed a brief wobbly smile.

John frowned down at him. "You're okay?"

"Just peachy. Apart from the fact I nearly starved myself to death to maintain this awesome 'drug-addict' look I got when... you know... And Billy's 'coffee' hit me like a truck. So far for substance use 'under supervision'."

He squinted up at John. "And what the hell took you so long?"

John chuckled awkwardly as Sherlock released the button and settled himself down more comfortably on the pillows.

"But I got my confession, though, didn't I?" He looked across to Smith, who pulled himself free of the police officer.

"Well! I don't recall making any confession."

He walked forward, but John held out a hand towards him. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa."

Smith stopped and gave him an indignant look. "What would I be confessing _to_?"

"You can listen to it later," Sherlock told him dryly.

"But there is no confession to listen to!" He stopped and gasped, holding up his hands. "Oh, Mr Holmes. I-I don't know if this is relevant, but we found three potential recording devices in the pockets of your coat."

Sherlock looked across to him.

"Um, all your possessions were searched upon your admittance. He looked at John. "Sorry," he said with an expression that didn't even remotely look like he was sorry.

Three. Huh.

"Must be something comforting about the number three. People _always_ give up after three," Sherlock said softly.

He raised his eyes to Smith who stared back at him in horror. Sherlock's gaze then moved across to John. "Thank you," he said, heartfelt. "For bringing your walking cane. For a moment there... I wasn't sure if you'd come. _Brief_ moment."

John shrugged his shoulders and shuffled his feet. "For a moment, I wasn't sure myself. The walking cane though... I figured I owed you at least that much. Sorry by the way. I'm so... so sorry! I-I really lost it then."

Sherlock turned his head away and settled more comfortably onto the bed. He was fine. Well, going to be fine. And Kyrie was going to be fine too. And soon... they'd be together again. For him, that was all that mattered. "'s Fine," he said, "You were right anyway."

John shook his head. "I may have been right, but that's no excuse."

Sherlock vaguely waved his hand. "Don't worry, I'm fine. Really. Kyrie on the other hand... She might need some convincing." He smiled thinking of his wife. He could actually feel his heart expanding in his chest with all the love it held for her.

John chuckled wryly. "Not looking forward to that. She's always been very touchy when it comes to you. You think that me showing up in time and saving your ass from this nob will help lessen her fury a bit?"

Sherlock smiled fondly at his friend and chuckled lightly. "Don't worry, John. I'll talk her round."

John grinned at him. "You will huh?"

Sherlock nodded, feeling ecstatically happy all of a sudden.

Anyway," John said, clapping his hands together. "Shall we show Mr Smith your little... _surprise_?"

Sherlock vaguely waved his hand at him. "Be my guest," he offered.

John stepped across to the chair by the door and picked up his walking cane. Turning back to the bed, he held it up.

"So, how did you do this? How-how does it open?"

"Screw the top."

John took hold of the handle and started to turn it. Sherlock kept his eyes on Smith who looked on with a grim expression on his face, while Sherlock's lips curled up in a smile.

He couldn't help himself. He'd spent long lonely months in hell and he hadn't seen Kyrie, or even heard her voice for that long, because he hadn't allowed himself to face her. He'd wanted to save that for after he'd exposed Smith. Now that he'd accomplished that, he hoped his reward would be a long-awaited return to his home and her embrace.

John pulled the handle off the cane and revealed a small device inside the stick. It was glowing bright red. He then pulled the recording device out and looked across to Sherlock.

"You were right, all along."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I know," he simply said.

John nodded at the police officer who then took Culverton Smith away. He held up the device to Sherlock. "I'm, er, gonna wait for Greg. Give him this. I'll give Mycroft a call to inform him his little brother is in the hospital, again. And um, I'll have him arrange for Kyrie to be returned back home."

"How is she?" Sherlock asked instantly.

When he didn't receive an immediate answer, he snapped his brows together. "John," he said, his voice urgent. " _How_ is she?"

John sighed. "She's fine, Sherlock. She's fine. I promise. She still needs physical therapy. Probably for a long time, and... she lost some strength in her right arm. But... who knows, it might return. Mycroft kept her updated of course while she was recovering in the private clinic run by Ramsay Healthcare. Mary and your parents visited her a lot. I bet Mycroft pulled a lot of strings to keep things all under cover. She'll need some help, Sherlock, for the time being."

"She'll get all the help she needs," he said gravely. "But... she _is_ fine? She _can_ come home?"

John gave Sherlock a small smile. "Yes, she can go home. Mary says she's not happy about having missed out on another Christmas and New Years celebration. So, you might want to work on that or she'll be threatening with divorce again."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. John just laughed. "I'll see you tomorrow, Sherlock. Behave? Try and don't be a cock to the staff."

Sherlock didn't reply. He nestled himself deeper in the cushions and he smiled. Soon. He would see her and be able to hold her again... soon.


	105. I Wear the Damn Hat!

**A/N Back from work and just had dinner. Really wanted to give this chapter a last read through before updating.**

 **It's terrific to read all of your reviews. I'm glad you guys enjoy the emotional growth of my Sherlock. It was a challenge to get the pacing right, but this felt like a good evolve for me. Yes, the Mind Palace thingy will be revealed, soon. And Kyrie will be back next chapter!**

 **For now, I hope you will enjoy this last chapter of The Lying Detective!**

SSS

She was on her way... She was finally coming home. It made him feel much, much better.

Quite content, Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, cradling a mug in both his hands. He was wearing his dark blue dressing gown over his clothes, wearing his 'Silver... something' shirt. Fog? No. Mist. That was it. 'Silver Mist'. Kyrie liked that one.

He still had a few days' of beard growth, but at least his hair and body were clean again. Well, his hair was cleaner. The corners of his lips turned down a bit. He'd really let himself go these last months! Though Kyrie wouldn't mind the stubble, or his, still, slightly greasy curls. She'd complain to no end about him having lost so much weight. And his left eye. John might get in a bit of trouble about that.

At least the room was much tidier again. All pictures, photographs and news clippings of Cultervon Smith were removed and all evidence of Billy's little 'meth lab' in the kitchen was gone.

To top it all off, the fire was lit; it crackled cheerily in the fireplace.

"I had, of course, several other backup plans for once I was in the hospital room. Trouble is, I couldn't remember what they were," he said with a bashful smile, looking from Mary to John who were sitting across from him.

"And, of course, I hadn't really anticipated that I'd hallucinated meeting his daughter."

Mary and John nodded at him. They were both cradling a mug of tea as well.

"Basically, you trashed yourself on drugs in the hopes you would hallucinate seeing Kyrie, but you got Smith's daughter instead," Mary said, arching a brow at him.

"Basically, yes," Sherlock said softly. He took a careful sip of his of tea while gazing towards the floor. He sighed. "Still a bit troubled by the daughter. Did seem very real, and she gave me information I couldn't have acquired elsewhere," he said softly.

"But she wasn't ever here?" John asked.

"Interesting, isn't it? Though, strangely enough, the coat I gave her, one of Kyrie's... is still missing. Anyway, I have theorised before that if one could attenuate to every available data stream in the world simultaneously, it would be possible to anticipate and deduce almost _anything_." He sniffed and looked down pensively.

John nodded his head. "Hm. So, you dreamed up a magic woman who told you things you didn't know."

"I bet you would have preferred if you'd dreamed up Kyrie." Mary smiled at him.

"Yes, well... that was the entire point of the drugs, wasn't it?" Sherlock paused for a moment. "Perhaps the drugs opened certain doors in my mind. I know of at least one door that was opened..." He looked away again, thinking about it. "I'm intrigued." He then took another drink of tea from his mug.

"Oh, I know you are..." John said, tilting his head towards the door. "... which is why we were all taking it in turns to keep you off the sweeties, in case you'd feel... tempted. Not much longer now though, not now Kyrie's on her way back."

His heart jolted in anticipation, merely hearing her name. Just a couple of more hours! Then she would step through that door again... and, hopefully, into his arms.

"Really no need, John. You know exactly what and how much I've taken. Just enough to sell the fact I was back on drugs."

"Still, we know you and once you have a taste for it..."

"She's coming home. You really think I'd reach for drugs... knowing that?" Sherlock asked him, his voice soft.

"I _never_ know with you, Sherlock. I never know what you think, what stupid things you'll do next. You hadn't even properly clued us in on your 'plan'!"

"I told you exactly what I needed you to do!"

"No, you gave us a vague half-arsed plan. To set up a consultation with a therapist to help us with our 'grief' and follow your lead when you'd show up. You could have told us about _how_ you planned to show up. You could have told us you planned the meeting with Culverton _that_ day."

"Where would be the fun in that? This looked way better. Even had your therapist fooled."

"Until you started stepping out of your role. You nearly gave yourself away there."

"It _was_ just the therapist."

"I think we owe her an apology," John sighed.

"Um, _you_ do, sweetie," Mary told him. "Because the day you set _that_ appointment, will be the day I won't be able to find a babysitter for Rosie."

"Great," John muttered.

Sherlock looked at the mug he held in his hands. "For a moment I thought I was actually going to die. Wasn't sure if you'd be in time or... if you'd show up at all. After... After it turned out that evening with Faith had all just been inside my head."

John worried his lip. "I um... don't think I was going to come. I only left you my walking cane because... you know, easy thing to do. One last indulgence. I hadn't actually planned on... sticking to my end of 'Plan C'."

Sherlock looked up at him. "What... what made you change your mind?"

"The photograph... of you and Kyrie. According to Mrs Hudson it's your favourite. And then I remembered. Smith had showed us his _favourite_ room. The mortuary. And then in an interview, while you were in the hospital, he said that maybe he'd put you in his _favourite_ room. It was then that I realised that, even though you were wrong about Faith... You weren't about him."

Sherlock gave him a wan smile. "The photograph? Guess she saved me again."

"When has she not?"

They chuckled a bit.

"True," the detective admitted.

"But um, we should be going home, pick up Rosie. Molly will be here in twenty minutes."

"Oh, I do think I can last twenty minutes without supervision," Sherlock said with a tight smile. What the hell was he supposed to do in TWENTY minutes? On his own? Ugh! And that would just be until Molly would arrive. He still had to wait hours until Kyrie would finally be back. Strange, it was so much easier to think of those hours ahead of him, with John and Mary here. But, he couldn't be selfish. Rosie needed her parents.

"Well, if you're sure," John said hesitantly.

"Maybe we could wait for another twenty minutes?" Mary suggested. "I mean, it's just twenty minutes."

"The recordings will probably be inadmissible, by the way," Sherlock said, looking up at John who just raised to his feet.

"Sorry, what?" John asked, looking down at him..

"Well, technically, it's entrapment so it might get thrown out as evidence. Not that that matters; apparently he can't stop confessing." He chuckled a bit.

"That's good," John said.

"Yeah."

"Sherlock, are _you_... okay?" Mary asked him suddenly.

He blinked at her, then looked down at his mug. His fingers were trembling again. "I will be," he said, his voice suddenly gravelly. "Once... once she's home, I will be."

"It was her own choice, Sherlock... to save your life. No point in beating yourself up about it. No one made her do it. No one can _ever_ make her do anything… It's like... she has tunnel vision when it comes to you and... not a force on earth can deviate her from that path," John told him, his voice serious.

"I- I should have... just... kept my mouth... shut," Sherlock said, his voice precise and breaking down to a whisper on the last word.

"Sherlock, Vivian was going take a shot anyway." Mary's eyes suddenly turned very serious. "Kyrie saw it coming. You just made sure we could anticipate her target. Otherwise Vivian just as easily could have shot me, or Kyrie, giving us no time to react. Kyrie knew that Vivian was going to target you and she prepared for it. And when it came down to it, she didn't hesitate. You should be proud of that. Because, what she did was really, really brave."

His bottom lip trembled hearing those words. "Thing is... in saving my life, she conferred a value on it." He hesitated for a moment. "It is a currency I do not know how to spend."

"Oh, but that one's easy," Mary said, smiling at him.

Sherlock frowned at her, not understanding.

"With love," she continued, her smile warm and affectionate.

Just then Sherlock's phone, face down on the table beside him, lit up and a very familiar female orgasmic voice sighed from the speakers.

John's head snapped up and Mary's smile dropped from her face, turning into a scowl. Sherlock, raising his mug to his lips, briefly glanced across at the phone.

"That noise. That's a text alert noise," Mary said darkly.

"What was that?" John demanded.

Lowering his mug, Sherlock looked around the room as if he was confused. _Damn, Irene. Really? Now?_

"Mm?" He swallowed his mouthful. "What was what?" He was just trying to bide some time.

"That's the text alert of Irene Adler; you told me about it, John. She's the scary mad one, right?"

"Yes," John said, the look in his eyes darkening.

"But she's dead," Mary said, sounding confused. She then sucked in a long gasp and looked at John "Ooh, I bet she _isn't_ dead! I bet he _saved_ her!"

"Sherlock," John said, his face now murderous. "If you've been having an affair on the side with... with... that... _harlot_!... Behind Kyrie's back... I'm gonna... So HELP ME...!" John's nostrils were flaring and Sherlock looked up in shock. What the hell was John thinking?

"Please, Sherlock," Mary cut it. "Please, tell me you haven't been cheating on my best friend with... with... _The Woman_!"

Sherlock heaved an exasperated breath when he looked at her. "Oh, Mary!" he said, his voice slightly accusing. "Don't you know? There's only _one_ woman in my life who deserves that title. The Woman, is and always will be... Kyrie. Always was."

"I-I don't understand," John said bewildered. "What do you mean when you say... Kyrie... _always was_ 'The Woman' for you?"

Sherlock gazed into his mug, examining it's contents.

"Oh!" Mary gasped and chuckled in delight. "This is priceless. Mr 'I-don't-do-romance.' Oh, the posh boy had the hots for the opera singer since the beginning! He's never knowingly under-clichéd, is he?"

Sherlock could feel his cheeks flame with embarrassment.

John gave him an enquiring look. "So... are we talking about... 'The Trial of The Century'?"

Not exactly...

"Okay," John said, studying his face. "Before that then. Dartmoor?"

He'd definitely 'noticed' those stirrings then, even though he'd fought them like hell.

John's mouth dropped open. "Before Dartmoor? But... That's when we had those distasteful dealings with Irene! _Everyone_ thought you were pining for her! You even bought her a Christmas present!" He looked at Mary. "That was fun for Kyrie, nearly broke her heart when she found out he'd given Irene a gold necklace with a gem pendant. "

Mary gave Sherlock a dark look but he quickly shook his head. "No! Did you ever bother to look at the colour of that gem?"

"It was...blue..." John said.

"No..." Sherlock grit through his teeth. "It wasn't _just_ blue."

John's mouth dropped open again. "You mean..."

"It was a gift for Kyrie, I just... never actually gave it to her and then... Irene went through my drawers and found it. She called me out on it in front of you and Kyrie and I..."

Mary puffed out a breath. "Wow... You didn't want to correct her because then you'd actually have to admit you had feelings for your own wife?"

"In my defence, though in hindsight, yes the feelings were there... I was a different person then, than... I am now."

"I remember," John said. "So, basically... you've been battling your feelings for Kyrie from...?" He gave Sherlock a pointed look.

Sherlock sighed wearily. Oh hell, why not? They wouldn't stop pestering him about it anyway.

"Second morning..." he mumbled.

"What?" John said, as if he hadn't heard right, or... didn't understand.

"The second morning," Sherlock said a bit louder this time. "I... noticed she had... shapely legs and, er, when she went about her business, making breakfast... I um, experienced the odd but... pleasant sensation of just... watching her," he muttered.

John's mug tumbled from his hands. "The second morning? You-you've been in love, or at least... attracted to her... since that second morning? You idiot! You _bloody_ moron! That was what... seven years ago? Dude! You wasted HALF A DECADE! Always going on and on about how you 'don't do romance'!"

"Aw," Mary said, giving him a look of sympathy. "Easy enough to say, 'No romance for me', with no actual women around. But... confronted with some daily loving attention of someone who not only cares deeply, but is also beautiful to boot. Not so easy then, to stay unaffected, is it?"

Sherlock didn't say a thing. He didn't like feeling so... naked.

"I have a vid," John suddenly stated proudly.

Sherlock's eyes widened in horror. Now what?

"Oh! Let me see!" Mary said.

"One moment, have to access the cloud, vid was taken with my old phone.

"Aw, but that's so small! Sherlock, get your laptop!"

He rolled his eyes, but it didn't take long at all before they all squished together at the side of the dinner table, to be able to watch the video that John had made. Years ago. Christmas Party at Baker Street.

Mary gasped when she saw the first image of Kyrie entering the room, looking painfully shy and self-aware and oh, _so_ , beautiful. Sherlock's heart responded immediately.

"Wow!" Mary said a little shocked. "Look at her! Looks like _someone_ 'dressed to impress'. Oooh! There's Sherlock! Look how _young_ he looks! Dressed to impress as well I see. Can't _believe_ you guy's have been dancing around each other for so many years!"

Sherlock scowled.

She actually went a bit misty eyed when she watched a younger Sherlock playing his violin while Kyrie sang her heart out, all the while his eyes never left her. Even to him, it was clearly recognisable now in his younger eyes... something he'd repressed for so long... Young blossoming love.

Mary gave him a warm smile, but she didn't tease him further. He was grateful for that and he gave her a small smile back.

"So..." John began. "If you are not having an affair with her... Why...? _Oh_!"

"John?" Sherlock furrowed his brows. What was John thinking now?

"I'm gonna make a deduction," John said.

Sherlock relaxed. "Oh, okay. That's good."

"And if my deduction is right, you're gonna be honest and tell me, okay?"

Mary gave them both puzzled looks.

"Okay. Though I should mention that it is possible for any given text alert to become randomly attached to a..."

John instantly interrupted him. "Happy birthday."

Mary smiled widely at Sherlock. He was silent for a moment, then nodded his head. "Thank you, John. That's... very kind of you." He looked down to his mug that was now standing next to his laptop.

" _Never_ knew when your birthday was," John said, pensively.

Sherlock picked up his mug and lifted it to his lips. "Well, now you do." He took a sip of tea.

"Does Kyrie know?" John asked curiously.

"Of course she does!" Sherlock scoffed. "She's always known... always gave me... presents... even though I tried to dissuade her from doing so. I also asked her to be discreet with my... details."

"Do you know hers?" Mary wanted to know.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed wearily. Of course he knew! "February 14th," he said reluctantly.

She burst out laughing. "What did I say? He's never knowingly under-clichéd! You were fibbing again, Sherlock. 'Cause you told her you'd never remember her birthday!"

"Bit hard to forget with such a date," Sherlock muttered.

"Crap! Molly's on her way here! We should celebrate Sherlock's birthday though!" Mary cried out.

"I'll um, send her a text. So, ask Mrs Hudson to look after Rosie and...?"

"We'll go to Lily Vanilli," Mary said instantly.

"Right."

Sherlock blinked his eyes. He had no idea what was going on right now.

SSS

"So, Molly's going to meet us at this ' _cake_ place' in twenty minutes."

"Yes, Sherlock! It's your birthday. Cake is obligatory," Mary told him while John was downstairs handing Rosie over to Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock was putting on his coat. "Oh, well. Suppose a sugar high's some sort of substitute."

Mary swatted his arm. "Behave," she admonished him with a chuckle. He smiled at her and quickly checked his watch again. The twenty minutes until Molly's arrival at Baker Street had by now stretched into an hour. An hour in which John had gone home, picked up Rosie and told Molly to meet them at the 'cake place'. One hour closer till Kyrie's return.

They both looked up when they first heard stumbling on the landing and then saw John's head peek around the corner.

"Cake?" he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He suddenly got the sense his birthday was just used as a pretence to be able to eat cake.

He nodded his head anyway. "Cake."

John and Mary started to walk out the door, but stopped when Sherlock started to mutter. "Oh, um..." He walked across the room to the cabinet to the right of the dining table. The cabinet he had once put Irene's phone in, in the top drawer. Years later, it had relocated to the bottom one, if it was still even there at all.

"What? What is it?" John asked as Sherlock pulled open the top drawer and started rummaging in it. His lips curled in a wry grin when he found what he was looking for.

"What's wrong?" Mary then asked when Sherlock remained silent.

He straightened up and turned, while simultaneously putting on his deerstalker.

John laughed while Mary gasped in delight.

"Seriously?!" John chuckled.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. I wear the damn hat." He kicked the drawer closed behind him before he walked across the room and out of the door.

"Isn't that right, Mary?"

"Damn straight!" she said, agreeing heartily.

"Good thing the person he actually wants to wear it for... is _not_ dead," John smiled at his wife. "Because you love it too."

"Yup."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at them before he bounded down the stairs.


	106. The Light on the Dark Side of Me

**A/N No comments right now. Just enjoy!**

 **Purplestan My time line is a bit different. There's a longer gap for instance between HotB and The Fall. Though John _is_ exaggerating a bit. **

**Lovesagoodstory19 I'm glad my episode lived up to your expectations! And yeah, my Molly has grown a lot. Not that she's completely over him, but she's definitely working on it!**

 **IronLace Glad you enjoyed that chapter. Though I think you will enjoy this one more!**

 **EllemichelleP More feels coming in! Hang on!**

 **DreamonAlina Yep! Enjoy!**

 **SSS**

A pink box was perched on the kitchen table, adorned with a bright pink ribbon and bow. Sherlock kept his eyes on it, even though he could only see the top of the box from where he was sitting in his armchair.

Inside the box, Sherlock knew, was a small fondant cake in a heart shape, artistically decorated with white and chocolate coloured flowers along the rim of the left curve of the heart.

" _Go on, Sherlock! She's coming home and it's your birthday. You two should celebrate together. Cake is obligatory."_ Mary had urged him.

He'd stood there, feeling a bit foolish when a young shop assistant asked him what kind of cake he'd like. So many cakes and pies and cupcakes to choose from! Most cakes were way over the top and he didn't like them. In the end he had just picked one because it looked... sweet. The inside of the cake, so he was told, consisted of two layers of whitened vanilla sponge cake with a raspberry filling between them. Soft, sweet and fruity. Without thinking any further he'd bought it.

And now... now the box was waiting to be opened up.

It had taken a lot of effort to get rid of Molly. Well, not _get rid off._.. He had enjoyed her company, but he didn't want anyone around when Kyrie would finally arrive because he had no idea how he would respond. And the only person he trusted to witness any outbursts of weakness, was the person he was waiting for in the first place.

Molly had not agreed at first.

" _You can't be trusted alone! Who knows what you still have lying around here!"_

" _My wife is nearly here! Do you really think I would plunge a needle into my arm to get high and ruin everything I've fought so hard to preserve? The only high I'm in danger of, is the one that's already coursing through my veins!"_

After a long moment, Molly had bowed her head and relented; she decided to trust him. She gave him a quick hug and, though tears clung to her lashes, she wished him the best. _"I'm happy for you, Sherlock. Truly I am."_

Now he was alone, painfully aware of every second that ticked away. Each one seemed to stretch into an hour, if not an eternity.

Every time he heard a car approaching, his ears perked up. And he'd hunch his shoulders each time the car would pass.

Any moment now, he kept telling himself. After three long lonely months... she was finally coming home.

A car approached. Ears perked up. The car drove by. Shoulders hunched. He was getting agitated. How much longer did he have to wait?

He blew out an anxious breath and he couldn't keep his leg from twitching up and down. His fingers restlessly tapped against the armrest of his seat. With every minute that passed, his heartrate went up a little. He was high-strung and felt ready to snap.

A car approached. Ears perked up. It stopped. It stopped! Shoulders straightened. Fingers and leg suddenly stilled. Heart jumping in throat. Front door opening and closing. He bolted from his armchair, and straightened his dressing gown.

Footsteps on the stairs. Hers? Oh, please God, let it be her!

If Mrs Hudson would be the one to open that door _now_... he feared newspapers would, come morning, detail all about a gruesome homicide committed at 221B Baker Street!

The wooden boards of the landing creaked. Sherlock clenched and unclenched his fingers; his breathing became a bit irregular.

Slowly, the living room door creaked open. He held his breath. Someone stepped inside, the soft burning lights from the room illuminated the person who entered the living room... finally revealing her to him.

Suddenly he felt the blood run from his face. His heart stopped. All he could do was just stare. His arms and legs weak as limp noodles as he just stood there frozen to the spot.

His eyes devoured the sight of her. God, but she was beautiful! Relieved of her coat, Kyrie took a tentative step towards him. He immediately noticed she carried her right arm a bit differently. She looked as nervous as he felt.

She was wearing a long violet blue, silk dress that seemed to wrap around her, collecting at her left side with small sash. Her shoulders were covered with the silver bordered cashmere pashmina stole he'd bought her some time back. Delicate, light and floaty with just a hint of violet blue.

He snapped his mouth shut when he realised he was ogling her slack-jawed. She took a few more steps until she stood right in front of him. Close enough for him to touch her. Now that she was within his reach, he found he couldn't move. Sherlock stood in front of her, paralysed.

Her eyes widened when they settled on his left eye. Not a pretty sight, he knew. The skin under his eye was still swollen. On top of that, the ugly stitches above his bloodshot eye made his face, that he didn't find all that becoming to begin with, that much harder to look at.

Sorrow filled her beautiful eyes and she carefully lifted a hand and brought it up to his face. Before her fingers managed to touch his skin, his hand clamped around her wrist like a vice. Her brows briefly twitched in surprise.

Their eyes met and he could no longer contain himself. He crashed his lips against hers and pulled her forward until she fell against his chest. Sherlock wasted no time in building up the kiss but immediately probed his tongue between her soft lips. One hand moved towards the nape of her neck to firmly hold her in place while he drank from her lips as if he was a man dying of thirst in the desert and she the only available source of water.

He groaned against her lips when her hands stole up his chest and nimbly started to work on the buttons of his dress shirt. He realised that the blood that had drained from his face and, apparently everywhere else, had started to pool in his pelvic area.

When he finally dragged his lips from hers to assault her neck, he heard her harshly gasp for air. He realised somewhere in his brain he had to take this slow. She still needed physical therapy for fuck's sake! And here he was, pouncing on her like an animal in heat.

Sherlock's pressed his lips against her jugular, revelling in the feel of her heartbeat against the skin of his lips... heartrate climbing, bit irregular, but so wonderfully present! He sucked and nipped at her skin, eliciting a tiny moan from her throat, driving him even more crazy.

Her hands pushed his dressing gown from his shoulders and down his arms. Sherlock pulled it off in one swift moment and flung it away from him. His fingers trembled in impatience as he worked on the buttons of his cuffs, but soon his dress shirt too went flying. Without taking his eyes off of her, Sherlock raised first one leg, then the other, to get rid of his shoes and socks. He then crouched in front of her and carefully lifted her foot so he could remove her strap heel. He did the same with her other foot.

From the moment she'd stepped inside, they hadn't said a single word to each other. Right now, words weren't necessary. He straightened himself to his full height and took great pleasure seeing how she gulped at the sight of him. It nearly made him pop out of his trousers.

He licked his lips to moist them and first pulled her stole from her shoulders, then slowly reached out to tug at the sash that sat on her hip. For a moment he forgot how to breath when he pulled the fabric away, revealing her slim body to him. Her breasts, soft and full, were hiding from him in a gold coloured lacy bra. Though he usually was capable of, at least briefly, appreciating enticing lingerie, this time he wasted no time. He simply reached behind her back, undid the clasp and relieved her from her bra.

His gaze bore into hers as he deftly pulled down her matching panties, letting it drop around her ankles. He instantly noted how her skin flushed in anticipation. She stepped out of her panties and delicately pushed them aside with her foot. Before he could reach for the zipper of his trousers, her hands swatted his away, her eyes never leaving his. They were smoky dark violet and he knew his eyes were as dark with desire as hers.

Slowly her fingers worked on the button of his trousers, his erection straining against the fabric. She pulled the zipper down and soon his trousers dropped around his ankles so he could step out of them. She swatted his hands away again when he reached for his briefs and gasped when her hand cupped and stroked him. His head fell back and he closed his eyes as she stroked him through the fabric.

He knew he was doomed. He knew he would not last long. He'd most likely embarrass himself by climaxing the moment he'd bury himself deep inside of her. But when had Kyrie ever made him feel uncomfortable by his own shortcomings?

His eyes snapped open, he tilted his head forward and plucked her slender hand away from him. He tugged his briefs down, freeing himself and felt himself grow even harder when her cheeks flushed becomingly and her lips parted slightly. He kicked his briefs away.

At the moment, he couldn't care less about standing buck naked in his living room, about to make love to his wife. He didn't care if the door wasn't locked and someone could step through it at any given moment. In fact, it just heightened his arousal.

If someone really was dumb enough to enter the flat unannounced, just when he was reunited with his Kyrie after three long months, they could bloody well decide for themselves how to deal with the sight of a stark naked Consulting Detective doing delightful things with his equally naked wife.

He lowered himself to the floor and pulled Kyrie with him until she was sprawled on the rug in front of him, ready for him to take her. He crawled over her and slowly sank his body down and drew in a harsh breath the moment he felt her warm skin against his.

Sherlock wrapped her long legs around his hips, dipped his head and claimed her lips with his while he surged forward and plunged deep inside of her at practically the same time. Once he was fully inside of her, he savoured the incredible and euphoric feeling for a moment.

It took all of his self-control to not spill himself right then. He shuddered and willed his body to submit to his mind. They were together again, at last, after months of waiting and longing and misery. He was determined to make this good, for the both of them.

He gently rocked his hips against hers, long and loving strokes that made her whimper and arch against him helplessly, tightening all around him in the most delicious of ways. Her soft cries of passion nearly drove him insane.

Drenched in sweat, Sherlock devoured Kyrie's mouth, her neck, her throat, the taut pink little peaks of her breasts. Driven with lust, he picked up the pace and he held her as close against his pounding body as possible, mindful to not put his weight on the right side of hers. He pulled her legs higher around him as desperation took over to be deeper inside her.

Her soft cries grew louder and started trilling near his ear. Usually he'd cover her lips to stifle her cries, lest they'd alert Mrs Hudson downstairs, but this time he didn't. It was all for him and he wanted to hear every note she cried out in her passion. Likewise, he didn't stifle his own groans either, because that was all for her.

She was an exquisite instrument to play, very finely tuned, more responsive even than his violin. And he knew exactly how to touch her so she made the most wonderful sounds – raw, intense, absolutely delicious noises of pleasure that were music to his ears.

Kyrie met each of his frenzied thrusts. Sherlock slid his hands between them, finding and caressing her where their bodies joined. A keening cry ripped from her throat at his touch and it took Sherlock's last shred of sanity and restraint. He plunged wildly inside her, grinding his body against hers, withdrawing only to bury himself inside her again and again.

He watched intently as his wife was gloriously unravelling beneath him. Her hair was a wild tumble, and her face was glowing, her eyes scrunched shut as she cried out when he took her over the edge. Sherlock felt how she arched against him and buried her mouth against his shoulder, sinking her teeth into his flesh. He let out a long drawn out moan when he felt the wild pulsations of Kyrie's climax all around him.

He tensed above her, every muscle taut and straining as his own climax built higher and higher to the point it became unbearable, until it exploded, shredding him apart, flooding from his body deep into hers, making him nearly howl with pleasure as he was dying in her arms.

He gasped for air and slowly sank his body to hers, unable to breath, unable to think, unable to hold anything back from her. The only thing he could do, was to submit himself body and soul to the one person who had managed to penetrate his self-defence and had crumbled the walls he had pulled up against all forms of emotion. To Kyrie, his wife. He buried his face in her neck and wept.

SSS

They laid together on the rug on the floor of their flat for a long, long time, the only sound in the room was emitted by the soft crackling fire.

When Sherlock pressed himself against her and buried his face in her neck, she ran one hand soothingly over his back and her other found its way into his sweat dampened curls, pressing him closer, ignoring the uncomfortable strain under her right shoulder. It didn't matter.

When his breaths came in short bursts; when his shoulders shook slightly; when she could feel hot droplets wetting her skin, she realised he was crying. Sherlock Holmes at his most vulnerable.

At some point he finally seemed to relax after a last shuddering breath. He pulled slightly back from her and gently turned her so he could look at her face. Kyrie was surprised that he didn't try to hide his tears from her. Usually he was awfully uptight when it came to 'displaying emotions'.

He reached out a hand and carefully brushed his knuckles against her cheek. Sherlock gazed into her eyes and her heart ached seeing the remnants of his pain in his. They were slowly clearing though, so that was good. He opened his mouth a couple of times but no words came. A deep fold appeared between furrowed brows as he got a bit agitated. He then breathed out slowly.

"I-" he stopped for a moment as if unsure how to continue. He swallowed. "I love you," he said solemnly.

Her heart skipped a few beats and she forgot to breath for a moment. She swallowed a lump away, then gave him a wobbly smile. "Oh Sherlock," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I know you do and I love you too, more than anything in this world. But it's nice to finally hear you say the words."

His eyes widened at her words and she gave him a puzzled look, a puzzled look that turned to bewilderment when he suddenly started to laugh a deep and rumbling laugh.

"What's so funny?" she asked hesitantly.

His face split in a big grin. "Apparently I managed to predict, nearly word for word, what your response to my confession would be."

She pouted at him. Was she really that predictable?

"I can hear the question forming in your mind. To save some time... Who are you married to again?"

Kyrie gave him a wary look when she noticed he tried to keep his lips from twitching into a smile. Her eyes widened when she realised. "You," she answered him sweetly.

His grin turned even wider. "And who am I?"

She beamed at him. "Sherlock Holmes, my brilliant, genius husband whom I love very, very much and whom I will continue to love with every breath that's left in my body. And then beyond."

He blinked his eyes in surprise and for a moment he seemed at a loss for words.

"Not the answer you expected?" Kyrie grinned at him.

"Not exactly, no. If memory serves me right, you were a bit more reluctant then and a bit more... elaborate now."

"So I _can_ still surprise you?"

"Never said you couldn't"

When the sweat on her body cooled, she shivered in his arms. He instantly moved away from her.

"One moment," he mumbled. He rose from the floor, absolutely not giving a damn he wasn't wearing a shred of clothes, and bent over to pluck his dressing gown from the floor.

He disappeared into the kitchen and then through the kitchen door. Soon, she heard water running in the bathroom. When he came back, he'd visibly cleaned himself up and was now approaching her with one of his dressing gowns draped over his arm, while carrying a wash cloth in his hand.

Silently, he lowered himself back to the floor and he gently pulled her up by her left arm. He swiped her hair all to one side and started to run the wash cloth over her body. She hissed when he touched a tender spot on her back. Bit of rug burn there. He tutted disapprovingly but then silently wiped away sweat and... other bodily fluids from between her legs.

He breathed a shuddering breath before placing a soft lingering kiss right above the scar tissue on her right shoulder. He then wordlessly handed her his camel coloured dressing gown before he went to the bath room again, probably to dump the wash cloth in the laundry basket as he reappeared without it.

She smiled when he gestured at one of the kitchen chairs and she took a seat across from him. Kyrie gave him a puzzled look when he carefully pushed a pink box towards her with a pink ribbon.

"What's this?"

He merely arched a brow at her. Curiosity winning over, she pulled the box to right in front of her, smiling when she saw Sherlock sitting cross-legged in front of her, wearing nothing but his dressing gown pulled around him and looking totally at ease.

When she opened the box her mouth dropped open at the sight of the most beautiful heartshaped cake she'd ever seen. For a moment she didn't know what to think or say. Kyrie blinked her eyes and gave him a puzzled look.

"I have it on good authority that it's obligatory to... have cake..."

Kyrie gasped when she realised. She worried her lip. "I'm... I'm so sorry! I-I never got you a present!" Her eyes filled with tears. She'd forgotten his birthday!

He placed his hand over hers. "Yes, you did. You just gave it to me and... it's the most perfect present imaginable. You."

She arched a brow at him. "Who are you and what have you done to my husband?" she quipped.

"I am him and I'm humbling myself in front of you, trying to be the husband you deserve and not the husband you have."

Kyrie snorted with laughter. "Please... Just stop! Those words coming from your mouth! It's _so_ not you!"

He grinned at her. "It _was_ getting rather awkward."

"Where did you _get_ all that?" she asked him.

He vaguely gestured with his hand. "Some book. _Everyone_ gets stuff like that from a book... So, um, about John..."

Kyrie pulled her lips in a tight line. "We're not talking about John."

"Well..."

"Please, don't ruin this evening. I just got back and got the most amazing 'welcome home' greeting that ever was or ever will be."

He hunched his shoulders and Kyrie realised she did have to tackle the issue at some point. After all, Sherlock needed his Boswell.

Tea?" he suddenly asked and he instantly got to his feet.

She cocked her head at him. "Sherlock, please tell me you are not going to treat me any differently? I'm not a China doll."

"Actually I _was_ planning too. And we are going to discuss some new boundaries and rules."

"What?"

"Later. First cake and tea. Then our bedroom. You will spend a day in our bed for each day we've been apart."

Her head shot up. "But, that was months!"

"I know," he said dryly as he got up to make them tea. "Problem?"


	107. How About Jawn?

**A/N Not much to say. Just a transition between TLD and... *drumrolls* The Final Problem!**

 **Companion Teresa *bows* Thank you!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Actually, I think that kind of rehab and recovery is actually recommended!**

 **Purplestan Thankx! I'm really glad she is back too!**

 **IronLace Belated Happy Birthday! I do feel sad though that the update of my story was the highlight of your presents. You deserve much better! I hope you had a wonderful day though!**

 **DreamonAlina Yes, he finally said it! LOL you and your Holmes babies! *rolls eyes and grins***

 **Artemis7448 Sherlock is just crazy... about Kyrie! And you are welcome btw!**

 **Thewickedprinces the moment they had each other in their sights again, nothing else mattered for them. I've been working towards that scene from the start of TLD!**

 **Kuppcake I laughed when I wrote the ending. So, glad that you liked it!**

 **Okay, now time for the actual chapter. Enjoy!**

SSS

John and Mary had not seen Sherlock and Kyrie for several months...

Nah, you didn't really think that's how the chapter starts right? Haha! Here's the real beginning!

SSS

True to his word, Sherlock locked them both in their bedroom, only allowing for bathroom and other hygiene breaks. Oh, and food. And tea. Other than that they spent several days – not months though – in bed or the sofa in the living room, secluded from the world and perfectly content with only each other for company.

Four days later, Sherlock studied his image in the mirror. His jaw was clean shaven and his curls – no longer greasy – had their usual volume. The stitches above his brow would leave a tiny little scar but the redness in his left eye had mostly receded.

Feeling the need to step back into his life as Sherlock Holmes, he'd dressed himself in a shirt and suit again. He'd entertained himself with aiding Lestrade solving a couple of easy cases from the comfort of his armchair for a time. At some point evening had set in and Kyrie had retired for bed.

Now, he stared at himself and considered the determined look on his face. He was different now; he could feel it.

The one thing he'd always feared would happen, should he ever dabble with love and romance, _had_ happened. In hindsight, he couldn't regret it overly much.

It appeared that Kyrie had, somehow, woven herself into his Mind Palace. She'd become the very thing that held it together. In her arms, with each kiss, each touch, each softly uttered word, she'd helped him restore the old place.

Everything was back where it belonged. Except for the blue wooden door he no longer could seem to find. He wondered where it was. It was a mystery for another day. For now he was chomping at the bit to resume his old... No, not his old... He was anxious to start his _new_ life!

By looking at the world through John's and Kyrie's eyes, he'd learned and grown a lot. But not enough. For all of his intellect and genius, he'd still been much like a child... And he realised, that's not what he wanted to be. He didn't want to stand in front of his wife as a boy, but as a man.

So, in rebuilding his Mind Palace, he'd created a new room and had finally done away with childish things. It was a room where his old self was stored, as a constant reminder of what damage his over-confidence and arrogance had wrought.

Though a lot of pain was shelved away in it, it was still a special room. It contained the essence of the man his wife had fallen in love with. The ownership of this new Mind Palace though, belonged to the man, he hoped, his wife could love. And the care for it had transferred into her hands, where he knew it was the safest.

Sherlock walked back into the bedroom where he found Kyrie slumbering in bed and desire stirred within him once again. He moved to his side of the bed and crawled on top of it. For a while he just drank in her appearance. Peaceful, beautiful, hair spread out over her pillow instead of braided as she usually did.

He let his hand travel under the sheet that covered her until it soon glided over the smooth skin of her thigh. His fingers lightly travelled up and down her leg eliciting soft sighs from her lips. He smiled when he noticed she was not wearing a night shirt... or panties for that matter. How delightfully convenient.

His fingers found the apex of her thighs and he started playing her with exquisite expertise. Her eyelids fluttered as if she was trying to wake, but found herself to be trapped in a sensual dream. Her cheeks flushed and her lips parted.

He realised something... If this had been the route he'd taken years ago in Dartmoor, instead of kissing her awake, that night would evolved differently. He could have easily taken her then and there.

Good thing he hadn't done so, because she'd been right about him. He would not have been able to cope the next morning. But he could now.

Sherlock gently pulled the sheet away from her and noticed the delicious effect the brief cold rush had on her body.

He lowered himself to replace his fingers with his mouth and her legs clamped around his shoulders in response. He gently pushed them apart and held them as he tasted her. She shuddered and shook at his intimate touch, falling apart in his hands as he held her steady, trapped by his seeking lips and searching tongue.

"Ssher-lock?" she suddenly gasped in the dark.

He smiled against her when she couldn't finish her sentence... 'What are you doing?'

'Pleasuring you, my dear,' a quick stroke of his tongue told her.

The soft choruses of moans that spilled from her lips were too much for him to bear. He felt his own blood surge, hot and swift in his veins, pooling lowly in his pelvis. His fingers fumbled with the button of his trousers and trembled with impatience as he pulled the zipper down.

She cried out when he took her swiftly. He only needed but a few deep thrusts to bring himself to the edge. It was more than enough to shatter her completely and her walls pulsed around him in the beginnings of her climax, almost taking him down with her. He cupped her buttocks with his hands and pulled her tightly against him as he drove into her, causing her to bow off the bed, quivering as her orgasm reached its peak. He followed her quickly and finally let his body crash on top of her.

"I'm going to receive clients again tomorrow," he managed to say in between ragged breaths.

"I know," she whispered.

He tried to furrow his brows but it was too much of an effort. "How? I just decided."

She started to laugh. "Who are you married to again?"

Sherlock snorted with laughter. "You."

"And who am I?"

"Kyrie Holmes, my dear and brilliant wife."

"I wouldn't say brilliant, but I don't need your deduction skills when it comes to you. Because I _know_ you."

"Yes," he agreed breathlessly. "Yes, you do."

After a short moment...

"Kyrie?"

"Yes?"

"About John..."

Brief pause.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Shut up."

SSS

The next day, when Mrs Hudson heard the familiar sounds of their footsteps going about, she carefully peeked her head round the door with her customary 'yoo-hoo'. Kyrie giggled seeing the wary look on Mrs Hudson's face and she wondered just how much of a noise they'd made.

Life continued again at Baker Street and of course, Kyrie could count on Mrs Hudson to help her around with the tasks she couldn't do all by herself yet. Like cooking. She could only cut vegetables at half her usual speed but Mrs Hudson took a lot of extra work away by making sure to buy any and all groceries Kyrie needed. Sherlock obligingly carried the bags up but he did leave it to Kyrie to put them away, unless it was something heavy or needed to be placed high up.

Overall, Kyrie and Sherlock were both recovering nicely. Kyrie was all Sherlock seemed to need to restore to his usual self. But Kyrie had...a few more issues to struggle through.

One day, Sherlock found her sitting on the floor in front of the kitchen counter, her face buried in her hands that were sticky with dough. When he saw the clump of partially processed dough sitting on the kitchen counter, he instantly knew the reason for her distress.

He lowered himself to the floor and gathered her in his arms, letting her softly sob against his chest. His heart thumped dully in his chest when he realised she'd wanted to make a home made soft milk bread, his favourite, and found she lacked the strength to properly knead the bread herself.

A few days later, Kyrie discovered a large box perched on the kitchen table. When she opened it, she found a fancy bread-maker inside. Sherlock promptly appeared behind her and, as he rubbed his jaw against the top of her head, he pointed out the machine had a dough function, in case she only wanted to use it to knead the dough.

She had flung her arms around his neck, they'd both stumbled backwards until Sherlock landed in his armchair, Kyrie on top of him. That's how they discovered there actually _was_ a situation in which they both enjoyed it when she was... sitting on his lap.

After a week, Kyrie texted Mary to let her know how she and Sherlock were doing. She knew Mary was probably anxious to see her, even though she'd been the only one who had been able to secretly visit her while Kyrie was recovering somewhere hidden away in the country side.

Kyrie had invited Mary over and decided to give the 'jam' setting on her new bread-maker a try while waiting. She was curious about the results it would yield. Though she loved home made jam, she always found the entire process messy and a bit tedious. Plus, the moment Sherlock discovered it, he tended to confiscate it all.

She was eyeing the machine a bit suspiciously. It still seemed a bit too good to be true, to just add the finely chopped fruit, sugar, lemon juice and a pinch of salt into the pan, select the right program and... wait.

Kyrie ignored the sound of footsteps climbing up the stairs until the door creaked open. When she did look up, she instantly raised herself from her bent position. That was not Mary...

"Sherlock is at Bart's," she said, keeping her voice tonelessly.

"I know," John said, looking a bit awkwardly. "I was, er, hoping to, er, have a talk with you, actually."

She breathed out slowly through her nose, but in the end she gestured to his seat, indicating he could sit down. She flopped down on Sherlock's chair herself.

For a moment John just stared at her, guilt written all over his face. He cleared his throat and after a long pause, he finally opened his mouth to speak. "I, er, I take it you already know what happened... in the hospital?"

Kyrie looked at him, but didn't reply. John grimaced a bit. He spread his hands and opened his mouth, without actual sound coming out of it. He swallowed hard and tried again. "I'm sorry," he finally said. "Truly I am... deeply sorry."

"Why are you telling _me_ this?" she asked flatly. "And not Sherlock?"

"I already did. Also... You know how he is. It doesn't matter to him, but it does to you. By now he will just have... filed it away somewhere in his Mind Palace where it just... is. Not forgotten but, not to be ever brought up either."

He had a point there. Sherlock would simply do what he'd done when Mary had shot him. Kyrie had more difficulties getting past things as these though.

"So, what _was_ going through your head when you beat him to a pulp? Was it convenient to have medical staff nearby to pick up the pieces you left behind? 'Oh, we're in a hospital, maybe I should punch him in the face!'"

John's expression grew more anxious hearing the cold bite to her voice. "No, of course not! I have..." he shook his head. "I have no excuse for what I did, other than that Mary thinks some old issues may have surfaced. Issues that I took out on Sherlock. And shouldn't have. And for that, I have no excuse at all."

Kyrie furrowed her brows when she noticed the emotion welling not only in his voice, but in his eyes as well. She realised he was tormenting and punishing himself harsher than she ever could.

Her eyes softened and John noticed. He shook his head vehemently. "No," he said, his voice gravelly. "I know that look. I've seen it often enough. I've hated it often enough too because... because the person you usually save that look for... never did much to deserve it. And neither do I. Not... not until you know _everything_."

She nodded at him and waited for him to continue.

"First, I want you to know... I'm, er, I'm going to see that therapist again." John rolled his jaw and blinked a couple of times. "A lot of stuff has happened over the years and instead of dealing with it, I bottled it all up."

John looked down at his hands. Kyrie lowered her gaze at his knuckles he was staring at. There were no traces visible, though she was certain they must have been there considering the damage she'd seen on Sherlock's face when she first came home.

"Sherlock's death, ab-abandoning you..."

He raised his hand to stop her when she reached out a hand to him. "... the shock of finding out he wasn't dead at all, that he'd lied to me for two years... then nearly losing him again because of Mary... Coming to terms with her past."

He shook his head. "So many things, some of them not even that significant. And, in between the madness, Sherlock's high and mighty behaviour... it was great. In fact, it was amazing. So, I put it all away. Then you got shot and instead of Sherlock letting us in, he shut us out. He'd rather do drugs on his own, not seeing or caring that he wasn't the only one who needed comforting. And then, the morning after you woke up, he suddenly reached out to us with this mad idea."

Kyrie could see exactly how much effort it cost him to tell her this; it was written all over his face.

"Culverton Smith," John said through gritted teeth, as if the very thought of that man made him ill. "Even when he was high on drugs, Sherlock managed to find himself a-a case. And we believed him. We plotted, we planned. Then... for a moment... it seemed as if Sherlock had lost it all together and I blamed myself for not stopping him, for _letting_ him derail like that. Him losing it like that... that was on me, but I took it out on him."

He stopped for a moment and stared off into the distance. "I punched him in the face, dragged him down to the floor and punched him again. He tried to get up but I just punched him right back down. He was down, Kyrie, my best friend hit rock bottom and instead of helping him, I punched him down and I kicked him to keep him down. And then I walked away from him. Turned my back and nearly let him die."

His shoulders hunched, the look of despair in his eyes... he looked as broken as he sounded. "He nearly died because of me. I f-... I failed him that day. And you."

Kyrie quietly rose to her feet and took one step to stand in front of him. When she touched his shoulder, John bent his head and his pent up emotions broke loose. She cupped the nape of his neck with her hand and cradled his head against her.

"You saved him in the end. When it counted the most, John Watson, you were there," Kyrie said softly. Her lips then curled into a small smile. "But, if you ever hurt him like that again, I _will_ clobber your head so far into your shoulders that you'll have to unbutton your vest to be able to eat."

John nearly choked on a sob and a laugh at the same time. "It's good to have you back!"

SSS

Several weeks later, Mary and Kyrie were both sitting on the sofa. Mary was bouncing Rosie on her knees, a wide grin plastered on her face. Kyrie had her mouth covered with her hand trying not to laugh at the two clients sitting in the 'client chairs'.

Sherlock's faced turned more sour with every word the husband told him, until he kicked out his feet as he hoisted himself up.

"Get out!" he suddenly yelled.

Kyrie couldn't help but admire her husband as he seemed to be back in his 'default' mode. Though she'd noticed a change in him – he actually made an effort to be more understanding and patient towards his clients – sometimes he just couldn't help himself.

Like this afternoon. His eyes were flashing angry and his clean-shaven jaw was set belligerently. Dressed in his usual suit, combined with a nice light grey brown dress shirt,'Muskoka Trail'.

He swiftly strode to the door and angrily yanked it open.

"She's possessed by the Devil!" The middle-aged, balding, short and pudgy man told him. "I swear my wife is channelling Satan!" he cried out.

"Yes, boring," Sherlock said and he gestured towards the landing. "Go away!"

The client stormed out of the room under the utterance of an exasperated sound. His wife followed, but turned back to Sherlock as she passed him.

"I'm _not_ channelling Satan!" the client's mousy looking wife told him in exasperation.

"Why _not_ , given your immediate alternative?"

The moment Sherlock slammed the door shut, Kyrie and Mary erupted in blithesome laughter.

It was great to be back and it was great to have Sherlock back. That day at the Aquarium... things could have turned out so much differently. Kyrie shuddered at the thought.

That evening John, unexpectedly, gave her another reason to shudder.

"Your sister, Sherlock!" John fumed at him. "She shot me with a tranquilliser! Posed as my therapist and _shot_ me during a session. So, when exactly were you going to tell us you have a secret sister?"

Sherlock stared up at his friend from his armchair, an uncomprehending look on his face. "I-I don't have a sister," he stammered.

"Well, Mycroft thinks you do and so does she. And, considering her, frankly, outlandish name... I'm of a mind to believe them and not you."

Kyrie gave Sherlock a worried look. Though his face was a mask of impassiveness, she could see panic appear in his eyes. "What's her name?" he whispered and then closed his eyes when John told him. Kyrie paled hearing the name. Eurus.

That night, Sherlock did not come to bed and Kyrie didn't push him. Right now he needed time to process. He'd come to her when he was ready and she would be waiting. When she walked over to him to press a kiss goodnight on the top of his head, she noticed he was busy preparing a text.

\- I know about Eurus. Tomorrow. 221B Baker Street. 10 AM  
Don't be late...

He was still typing the rest. She briefly leaned into him, then sighed in resignation when she realised he wasn't responding to her.

She found him still sitting in his armchair, early next morning. He'd fallen asleep. Not wanting to harshly wake him up, Kyrie went about her routine and then put on the kettle for some tea. She figured the soft mundane sounds of the morning would gently stir him from his sleep.

She smiled when she felt his lips press a kiss in her neck. "Good morning," he greeted her with a gravelly voice. Her smile faded after a moment. She wondered what excuse Mycroft would have for them this time.


	108. Truth is rarely pure and never simple

**A/N Was too tired yesterday. Also, my girls have a holiday right now and I don't plan to spend it by writing each day. The coming days updates will be a bit more infrequent. Also, I skipped the first two of Sherlock's tests as I didn't feel like rehashing what happens in the show with just some internal thoughts sprinkled in. Also, you guys are probably most interested in my take on the third one anyway! That is still a few chapters away though!**

 **DreamonAlina I'm glad you like the way I evolved Sherlock as opposed to how he evolved in the show. 'Emotional' Sherlock is of course uncharted territory so this is just my own take.**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Aw, that means a lot! I know how you felt about John beating Sherlock to a pulp so, him finding forgiveness now with you as well, is great!**

 **EllemichelleP and IronLace I made a few changes of course to TFP so I hope you'll like them.**

 **Wynnleaf Thank you, I value everyone's opinion! We all react to different situations in our own way and Kyrie was hardly responding rationally. She has her own feelings about Sherlock and drugs and, I feel, this reaction is consistent with her character. Plus she shows she's less perfect than the people around her think she is. Glad to know you still enjoy the story.**

 **Companion Teresa Haha 'Jawn' was my little joke. It will make a small reappearance again ;-)**

 **Guest Thank you so much! Though Molly was never my favourite, I like how (in my story at least) she now finally makes a real effort to grow and get over Sherlock. Not sure what 'litest' is, but I guess it's good :-D**

 **Thewickedprinces Well, the start of TFP is here, hope it lives up to your expectations.**

 **Enjoy the update!**

SSS

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair with his fingers steepled against his chin, staring downwards. Opposite him, John sat and watched him, twirling a pen in the fingers of his hand. Kyrie sat on the armrest of Sherlock's armchair. She smoothed down the fabric of her simple peacock blue sweater dress while keeping an impassive look on her face.

Mycroft was standing beside the client chair. The chair was standing in the middle of the room, facing the fireplace, but Mycroft refused to sit down. He had his arms folded and glared at Sherlock with a stubborn look on his face.

John glanced over to him for a moment before looking away again. They were waiting...

Mrs Hudson was standing in the doorway, also with her arms folded, looking at Mycroft with a slight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You have to sit in the chair," she told him.

Mycroft turned his head and Kyrie could only imagine the kind of withering look he gave their landlady. "I'm _not_ a client," he said tetchily.

"Then get out." Sherlock shot back, his voice soft but firm. He didn't bother to look at him.

Kyrie's brother-in-law's nostrils flared as he turned to look at her boys. John looked up towards him, tapping the tip of his pen against the arm of his chair. Sherlock just kept looking ahead of him. Kyrie didn't really know where to look. She was angry with Mycroft for keeping something this big, not only from her, but his own brother! For such a long time! But she couldn't deny the dried up old prune was very dear to her.

He often enough had to stand alone against his younger sibling. Where Sherlock could always count on John and his wife to stand beside him, Mycroft had no one.

Unfolding his arms and holding them out in surrender, Mycroft walked around and finally sat in the chair. Mycroft gestured towards Mrs H. as he looked at his at his brother. "She's not going to stay there, is she?" he inquired.

Sherlock looked towards their landlady and after a moment he tilted his head to her. Mrs H. looked at Mycroft and didn't seem fazed at the slightest. "Would you like a cup of tea?" She surprisingly offered him.

"Thank you," Mycroft said brusque, without actually sounding grateful.

Mrs Hudson pointed towards the kitchen. "The kettle's over there." She then turned and headed down the stairs.

Both John and Sherlock smiled at this while Mycroft looked quite forlorn.

"Oh, for heaven's sakes!" Kyrie muttered while rolling her eyes. She got to her feet and walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She figured they could all use a cup of tea. Kyrie had even went out of her way to make puff pastries filled with home made raspberry jam. Nerves.

"So, what happens now? Are you going to make deductions?" Mycroft asked, his voice scathing.

"You're going to tell the truth, Mycroft, pure and simple." Sherlock advised him.

"Who was it said, _'Truth is rarely pure, and never simple'_?"

Sherlock slightly shifted in his seat to face his brother. "I don't know and I don't care. So, there were three of us. I know that now. You, me, and... Eurus."

Mycroft's only answer was a curt nod of his head.

Kyrie had finished placing the puff pastries on a tray and brought them into the living room. The moment John noticed what she offered him, he snorted with laughter. "Really, Kyrie?" he asked incredulously. She knew he didn't mean it like that, but she couldn't help but feel embarrassed.

She was grateful that Sherlock gave John such a wilting look, it would have made other men cry. "Sorry," John mumbled and this time he humbly took a pastry from the tray. "It looks delicious, Kyrie. Ta."

Sherlock didn't comment at all when he took a pastry, but the look on his face when he took a bite was praise enough for her. She gave him a small smile causing his eyes to light up at her.

Kyrie then walked over to Mycroft, who looked up in surprise as if he hadn't expected to be offered a treat.

"Thank you, sister dear," he said, his voice a bit soft. Kyrie knew he was being earnest, she could hear it in his voice.

"So, a sister I can't remember," Sherlock said, while unabashedly munching on the pastry. "Interesting name, Eurus. It's Greek, isn't it?"

John looked down at his notebook, trying to not get jam smeared over the notes he'd already made. "Mm. Yeah, uh, literally 'the god of the East Wind.'"

"Yes," Mycroft confirmed.

For his sake Kyrie prepared them a pot of delicate Darjeeling. She knew it was his favourite.

Sherlock gazed towards the floor. "'The East Wind is coming, Sherlock.'" He looked at his brother and Kyrie's hands stilled, the tea pot raised in her hand. "You used that to scare me."

"No," Mycroft countered.

"You turned my sister into a ghost story."

"Of _course_ I didn't. I monitored you," Mycroft scoffed.

Kyrie resumed pouring tea into the waiting teacups.

"You what?" John asked.

"Memories can resurface. Wounds can re-open. The roads we walk have demons beneath..."

Kyrie walked over to him with his tea and noticed the look he gave Sherlock. "... and yours have been waiting for a very long time. I never bullied you. I used – at discrete intervals – potential trigger words to update myself as to your mental condition. I was looking after you. Thank you, Kyrie." He took the offered cup of tea from her.

"Why can't I remember her?" Sherlock asked his brother in a soft but intense tone.

Mycroft paused for a moment. He glanced in John's direction but did not look at him. "This is a private matter," he said pointedly.

"John stays." Sherlock deflected his objection.

John, who had braced himself to get up, looked across to Sherlock with a surprised look on his face. Mycroft looked angry however and he leaned forward in his chair. "This is family," he whispered harshly.

"That's why he stays!" Sherlock shot back in a loud voice.

The brothers locked eyes for a long moment. John smiled to himself and lowered his head. Eventually Mycroft decided to sit back. John cleared his throat and nodded at Kyrie when she placed his tea on the small table next to his chair.

"So, there were three Holmes kids," he said. He pulled the lid off his pen and re-opened his notebook. "What was the age gap?"

Kyrie offered Sherlock his tea and couldn't help but grin fondly at him. She gingerly reached out a hand to wipe a bit of jam away from the corner of his mouth. Sherlock tutted in annoyance and quickly wiped his mouth to prevent further embarrassing displays like that. Kyrie merely flashed him a sweet smile.

"Seven years between myself and Sherlock. One year between Sherlock and Eurus."

John nodded and pointed his pen in Sherlock's direction. "Middle child. Explains a lot," he said dryly. Kyrie smiled and ran her hand through Sherlock's curls as he threw John a look. John raised his eyebrows at him and then turned his attention back to his notebook.

"So, did she have it too?"

"Have what?" Mycroft asked him, curtly.

"The deduction thing," John replied a bit hesitantly.

Kyrie started to laugh seeing the appalled look on Mycroft's face. "I think John means your and Sherlock's uncanny ability to read people and situations like a book.

Mycroft scoffed sarcastically before looking reflectively towards the fireplace. "More than you can know," he then softly said.

"Enlighten me," John said when Mycroft didn't seem to want to elaborate further.

Mycroft looked at John while gesturing between himself and Sherlock. "You realise I'm the smart one?" he claimed pompously.

"As you never cease to announce," Sherlock muttered petulantly.

"Croft, don't make me threaten you," Kyrie warned him.

Mycroft scoffed at her. "As if you could!"

Kyrie gave him such an icy look that Mycroft instantly raised his hands in defence. "Fine. She was incandescent even then. Our abilities were professionally assessed more than once. I was remarkable, but Eurus was described as an era-defining genius, beyond Newton."

"Then why don't I remember her?" Sherlock said softly, but intensely.

"Sherlock," Kyrie reminded him. "I think... I think you locked your memories of her away. Remember the blue door, in your Mind Palace?"

Mycroft gave Sherlock a questioning look.

"Not... too long ago, I discovered a blue wooden door in my 'Mind Palace'. There was a name on that door. Eurus. Ever since I discovered that door... I've been seeing images of a little girl, two boys I think and... Redbeard."

Mycroft paled at the words and he gulped, visibly feeling uncomfortable. "You _do_ remember her, in a way. Every choice you ever made. Every path you've ever taken – the man you are today... is your memory of Eurus."

Kyrie moved her hand to Sherlock's side and let her fingers gently brush against his, not sure if he'd want the physical contact or not. He quietly responded by slipping his fingers through hers.

Mycroft looked down and got a faraway look in his eyes. Kyrie realised that, wherever he was, it wasn't here in Baker Street.

"She was different from the beginning," he told them. "She knew things she should never have known as if she was somehow aware of truths beyond the normal scope."

Kyrie frowned when Mycroft opened his hand and stared at it, as if he was holding something in his palm. He suddenly straightened up in his chair a little and resumed staring towards the fireplace.

"Mycroft?" Kyrie called out to him, her voice gentle. "What's wrong?"

"Sorry," Mycroft said. He briefly looked down at his open hand again and then closed it.

"The memories are disturbing," he admitted.

"What do you mean? Examples," Sherlock demanded.

"They found her with a knife once. She seemed to be cutting herself. Mother and Father were terrified. They thought it was a suicide attempt. But when I asked Eurus what she was doing, she said that she wanted to see how her muscles worked."

"Holy Mary of..." John muttered.

"So, I asked her if she felt pain, and she said she didn't know which 'feeling' was supposed to be pain. You see, she not only had the subclinical inability to identify and describe emotions in herself, she also couldn't tell when she was hurting... damaging herself. Though a precise psychiatric profile was never made, she was at least alexithymic, or so were were told..."

Kyrie's hand flew to her mouth in shock.

"What happened?" Sherlock prodded him.

Mycroft put his hands on his knees and got to his feet. "Musgrave," he said, looking off into the distance.

"The ancestral home, where there was always honey for tea and biscuits or other treats." Mycroft turned his head and gave Kyrie a slight smile. "You'd be surprised how much you are like how Mummy was back then. Bringing comfort and providing a warm home..."

His smile faded and he looked away again. "Oh, how Sherlock loved to play among the funny gravestones."

"Funny how?" John asked, giving him a puzzled look.

"They weren't real. The dates were all wrong. A little architectural joke which fascinated Sherlock to no end."

Kyrie gave Sherlock a surprised look when he started whispering some odd words. "Help succour me now..."

She looked at Mycroft when he softly joined in. "... the East winds blow."

"Sixteen by six..." Sherlock whispered.

"... and under we go," Mycroft finished, a haunted look on his face. "You're starting to remember."

"Fragments. Redbeard..."

"Redbeard?" John asked.

"He was my dog," Sherlock answered him.

Kyrie gave Mycroft a suspicious look when she noticed a minute look of guilt flash through his eyes.

"Eurus took _Redbeard_ and locked him up somewhere no one could find him," Mycroft told them. "... and she refused to say where he was."

Her mouth dropped open at the sadness of it all. As Eurus had only been a child, she wouldn't have been able to consider the consequences of her actions. Since she already showed such a lack of understanding emotions... Tears started to well in her eyes when she imagined young Sherlock running through fields and into woodland, in search of his beloved pet. She grasped his fingers tighter.

"She'd only repeat that song... her little ritual," Mycroft continued. "We begged and begged her to tell us where he was, but she said 'The song is the answer'. But the song made no sense."

"What happened to Redbeard?" Sherlock asked him quietly, his fingers now slightly trembling, his thumb drawing circles on her skin to anchor himself.

"We never found him. But she started calling him 'Drowned Redbeard,' so we made our assumptions."

Kyrie closed his eyes at those words.

"Sherlock was traumatised. Natural, I suppose – he was, in the early days, an emotional child, but after that he was different, so changed. Never spoke of it again. In time, he seemed to forget that Eurus had ever even existed."

Kyrie furrowed her brows at that.

"How could he forget? She was living in the same house," John asked in surprise.

Mycroft sadly shook his head. "No. They took her away."

Sherlock looked round to him, as did John and Kyrie.

"Why? You don't take away a child because a dog goes missing," Kyrie cried out.

"Quite so," Mycroft agreed. "It was what happened immediately afterwards. It had been a mess that day. Sherlock was hysterical, Mummy and Daddy were fighting. Daddy wanted to force Eurus to tell the truth. Mummy reminded him that no one could ever make her do anything. And Eurus... she had a psychosis."

He breathed out and closed his eyes... apparently lost in the memory. "She burned down the entire place. I managed to get out quite early, but Sherlock was trapped inside his room. He... nearly perished in the flames, if it weren't for Daddy reaching him just in time. I'll never forget the look on Sherlock's face when Daddy emerged from the house... carrying him in his arms.

Her tears now flowed freely down her cheeks. Kyrie wiped at them with the hand that wasn't held in a crushing grip. She grimaced a bit. Thankfully Sherlock seemed to notice as he immediately relieved the pressure.

"After that, our sister was taken away for psychiatric evaluation."

"Where?" Sherlock asked, his voice hoarse.

"Oh, some suitable place – or so everyone thought. Not suitable enough, however. She died there."

"How?" John asked.

"She managed to manipulate one of the orderlies to give her matches. She started another fire, one which she did not survive."

"This is a lie," Sherlock said firmly.

John and Kyrie both looked towards Mycroft, who hesitated, but only for a moment. "Yes. It is also a kindness. This is the story uncle Rudy told our parents to spare them further pain, and to account for the absence of an identifiable body."

Kyrie gasped at the horror of those words and the neutral way Mycroft just admitted he knew his parents had been grieving the death of a child for God knew how many years... and didn't know she was still alive.

"And no doubt to prevent their further interference," Sherlock added.

"Well, that too, of course. Mother and Father _never_ would have allowed Eurus to be permanently taken away from them, to be institutionalised somewhere they had no say or control. But, the depth of Eurus' psychosis and – even more than that – the extent of her abilities she then already possessed, couldn't hope to be contained in any ordinary institution. Uncle Rudy considered her to be a danger, not just to others but also herself. He... took care of things."

"Mycroft..." Kyrie began as she wiped more tears away. "Surely Sherlock would have asked questions when he saw a-a family member he couldn't remember in the family photographs? Why didn't they remind him he _used_ to have a sister?"

"They already lost one child to a disturbing psychosis, sister dear," Mycroft answered her softly. "Sherlock already was in a fragile state... Redbeard gone, nearly perished in a fire... When Sherlock first showed signs he was _blotting_ Eurus from his memory, Mummy and Daddy did not want to risk losing a second child to a psychosis. They sacrificed the memories they had of their daughter who no longer lived, to preserve the sanity of their son who still had a chance."

"Where is she, Mycroft? Where's our sister?" Sherlock asked him softly, though his voice was still intense.

"There's a place called Sherrinford... an island. It's a secure and very secretive installation whose sole purpose is to contain what we call 'the uncontainables.'"

Mycroft gave them a grim look. "The demons beneath the road – this is where we trap them. Sherrinford is more than a prison or an asylum, it is a fortress built to keep the rest of the world safe from what is inside it. Heaven may be a fantasy for the credulous and the afraid, but I can give you a map reference for Hell."

Sherlock gave him a sharp look as Mycroft drew in a long breath. "That's where our sister has been since early childhood. She hasn't left – not for a single day. Whoever you met, it _can't_ have been her."

All four of them looked up simultaneously when they heard a loud crash of breaking glass coming from the kitchen, followed by the thump of something falling to the floor...


	109. Boom!

**A/N About to turn in for the night but managed to edit this chapter enough for upload. I gave it a brief read through so excuse any mistakes you see.**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Thanks for understanding! And you will just have to read this chapter to find out!**

 **Kuppcake Thanks for your review. Can't wait to see what you think of this little take on the TFP episode.**

 **Thewickedprinces You will find out this chapter how things will pan out!**

 **Sorry for the short replies. I am really tired though, hopefully giving you another chapter will make up for that. I may try and post the updates late in the evening so I can spend the day with my girls. Anyway … enjoy!**

SSS

John turned in his chair to look first, then they all stood up and looked towards the kitchen.

Beyond all Sherlock's equipment on the table and a clothes airer with nitril gloves and various bits of paperwork clipped to it in instead of actual clothes, Kyrie could see that the top part of the window had been smashed in.

At first she just stared at the window wondering what had happened, when – from the floor behind the kitchen table – she could suddenly hear an adult woman's voice, softly singing. It was slightly tinny though, as if the sound was coming from a small speaker. It sent shivers down her spine.

" _I that am lost. Oh, who will find me. Deep down below... The old beech tree?"_

Sherlock pushed her behind him and he looked over to his brother. Mycroft's face filled with horror when a small drone rose up from the floor and hovered sideways across the room.

" _Help succour me now, the East Wind's blowing. Sixteen by six, brother and under we go."_

The drone began to fly forward across the kitchen table, the wind from its four rotors blowing papers and other stuff off the table.

As it slowly hovered towards the living room, Mycroft spoke urgently. "Keep back! Keep as still as you can!

John instantly backed towards the dining table as Sherlock backed towards the bookcase next to the fireplace. Kyrie tried to peek around Sherlock but his arm instantly shoved her back.

"What is it?" John asked anxiously.

" _My soul seeks the shade of my willow's bloom..."_

"It's a drone," Sherlock told him just a bit superfluously.

"Yeah, I can see that." John was looking a the large silver-green grenade-like object on top of the drone. It was what Kyrie was staring at too. "What's it carrying?"

"What's that silver thing on top of it, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked his brother.

Mycroft was standing near the living room door, a look of terror on his face. "That looks to be a DX-707."

The drone hovered in mid-air between the four of them.

"I've authorised the purchase of quite a number of these some time ago. A purchase that, ironically, Gerulf Schricken delivered upon. Colloquially it is known as 'The patience grenade.'"

The drone landed on the floor and its rotors shut down.

" _Patience_?" John asked nervously.

The grenade buzzed and then the top popped up a bit, showing a bright red light emanating from inside the device. It repeatedly beeped quietly and ominously.

"The motion sensor has activated. If any of us move, the grenade will detonate," Mycroft said softly.

"How powerful?" Sherlock asked, barely above a whisper.

"If that _is_ a DX-707, it will certainly destroy this flat and kill anyone in it. Assuming walls of reasonable strength, your neighbours should be safe, but as it's landed on the floor, I am moved to wonder if the café below is open."

"It's Sunday morning, so it's closed."

"What about Mrs Hudson?" John asked, slightly turning his head in the direction from which they could faintly hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner.

"Going by her usual routine, I estimate she has another two minutes left," Sherlock said, his voice still soft.

"She keeps the vacuum cleaner at the back of the flat," John added.

"So?" Mycroft said, clearly not understanding what Sherlock and John were trying to say.

Kyrie was shaking with fear and she pressed herself closer to Sherlock. She couldn't believe she'd only recently nearly died to save his life. Were they both going to die now? They'd only just been reunited!

"So, safer there when she's putting it away?" John explained. "Look, we have to move eventually. We should do it when she's safest."

"When the vacuum stops, we give her eight seconds to get to the back of the flat. She's fast when she's cleaning." Sherlock was already making plans. "Then we move. What's the trigger response time?" he asked his brother.

Mycroft gave him a blank look.

"Once we're mobile, how long before detonation?" Sherlock clarified his question.

"We have a maximum of three seconds to vacate the blast radius."

Kyrie groaned softly against Sherlock's back and saw John close his eyes, his shoulders sagging slightly.

"John and I will take the windows. I'll help Kyrie out. Mycroft, you take the stairs. Help get Mrs Hudson out too."

"Me?" Mycroft asked surprised. If she hadn't been so afraid, Kyrie would have rolled her eyes at his reluctance to play the hero.

"You're closer."

" _You're_ faster."

"Really, Mycroft? And I thought you were supposed to be the 'smart one'," Kyrie scoffed.

"Speed differential won't be as critical as the distance, even Kyrie understands."

"Yes, agreed," Mycroft said, unhappily.

The humming sound of the vacuum cleaner grew more silent. "She's further away. She's moving to the back," John said, reminding them that correct timing was of the essence.

"I estimate we have a minute left. Is a phone call possible?" Sherlock asked his brother.

"Phone call?"

"John has a wife and daughter," Sherlock explained.

Kyrie tried to glance at John without moving her head.

"He may wish to say goodbye."

"I'm sorry, Doctor Watson. Any movement will set off the grenade."

John bared his teeth and sighed quietly.

"I hope you understand."

"Oscar Wilde," John suddenly said out of the blue.

"What?" Mycroft sounded as confused as Kyrie felt.

" _He_ said, _'The truth is rarely pure, and never simple._ ' It's from 'The Importance of Being Earnest.' We did it in school.

Kyrie could feel a brief chuckle rumble in Sherlock's chest, as she was pressed against his back.

Mycroft nodded very slightly. "So did we. Now I recall. I was Lady Bracknell."

"Lady Bracknell?" Kyrie chortled.

"Yes. You were great," Sherlock told his brother.

"You really think so?" Mycroft asked him. He sounded so hopeful.

"Yes, I really do," Sherlock admitted. Kyrie felt pride swell in her heart. Not even a year ago, Sherlock would have come back with some scathing remark.

"Well, that's good to know. I've always wondered," Mycroft mumbled, sounding just a bit shy.

Suddenly the vacuum cleaner shut down. Kyrie felt paralysed; her breathing nothing more than short little gasps.

"Good luck, boys," Sherlock told his friend and brother.

A soft whimper managed to get past her trembling lips.

"Three, two, one. Go!"

There was no time to think. The three men turned in unison, while Kyrie just stood there, rooted to the spot. John made a dash for the right-hand window near him as she just so Mycroft disappearing through the door. At the same time Sherlock's arm nearly crushed her to him as he leapt up onto the back of his chair. Before she could even blink, they crashed through the window as behind them the device exploded.

Kyrie's ears were ringing and she vaguely registered a brief moment of falling with Sherlock's arms securely wrapped around her. Then the wind was knocked from her lungs when they both crashed against something. A loud ripping noise briefly distracted her before Sherlock suddenly grunted in pain.

It took a while before Kyrie even noticed they were no longer falling. When she tried to struggle up, Sherlock's arms prevented her from moving much, they were still clutching her to him. His arms suddenly fell away and when she braced herself on her elbows and looked down at him, his face split in half with a goofy grin.

"How are we still alive?" she wondered. "How is not every bone in our body broken?"

Sherlock groaned a bit as he pointed up behind her. Kyrie winced in discomfort when she turned her head to look. Her mouth dropped open when she saw the remnants of Speedy's cheery red awning flapping in a mild breeze like a banner. The fabric had ripped apart when they crashed straight through it. It might just have saved their lives!

Sherlock was still grinning like an idiot as he pulled her right back down.

SSS

Soon after, Kyrie was sitting on the back steps of an ambulance, drinking a cup of water. Her hands were trembling and even the red shock blanket around her shoulder couldn't prevent her from feeling cold. She shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around her.

Kyrie felt a bit like a hysterical fluffhead because Sherlock was sitting next to her, acting as if they hadn't just jumped from a window to escape the explosion of a grenade. A grenade that, looking back on it, didn't even seem half as powerful as Mycroft had suggested. She'd even heard John grumble that he'd heard louder elephant farts!

John was standing nearby, hands thrust in his pocket, talking to Mycroft while Sherlock was slowly rubbing a hand up and down her back as she tried to save some of her dignity by not bursting into tears. A battle she was slowly losing. She was grateful they weren't being overrun by the media. Mycroft could be an insensitive prick, but a brother-in-law who could slap a D-notice on any situation he liked was pretty nifty.

"According to Mycroft it wasn't a real DX-707," Sherlock told her. His deep baritone had a soothing effect on her. At the moment she could happily listen to him drone on reading the contents of a phone book.

"If it had been, we wouldn't have made it out alive at all. He didn't say at the time because..." Sherlock breathed out a bit. "... he didn't want to worry you."

"Wh-what was the p-point then?" Kyrie asked him, trying and failing to keep her teeth from chattering.

Sherlock drew in a long breath. "Attention. Someone went through great lengths to show us they could have killed us, had they wanted to."

"Who?" Kyrie asked puzzled.

She noticed the faraway looking creeping into his eyes again. "Moriarty," Sherlock said softly. "A-a posthumous game, carried out by someone else. I think we will find more answers in Sherrinford."

"We're going to Sherrinford? Isn't that were your sister is... is supposed to be?"

He briefly stopped rubbing her back. "No," he said softly. " _We're_ going to Sherrrinford. _You're_ staying here."

"But!"

"No 'buts', Kyrie. You are not coming." His voice was adamant and Kyrie knew it would be futile to argue with him on this.

"If this _has_ something to do with Moriarty, then I want you as far away from it all as possible. Mycroft and John will join me. You go and be with Mary and Rosie."

"Why do you think this has something to do with Moriarty?"

"Because my sister did not only pose as John's therapist. She posed as Faith Smith as well. I... I found the paper with her handwriting. Someone _was_ there that evening. Just not... who I thought. I examined the paper more closely and found a message. _'Miss me'_ "

" _'Miss me'_... So, when you were on that plane, ready to go on a suicidal mission in Europe, and-and that 'Miss me' message was all over England...?"

"Eurus. Had to be. Somehow she and Moriarty are connected. She must have learned about my impending exile; it forced her hand to put her 'plan' in motion. Whatever that may be. That's what we have to find out."

"Promise me..." Kyrie felt tiny and small, "... promise that you'll be careful and that you'll come back to me?"

Sherlock leaned in to whisper near her ear. "I promise. After all, I have a lot to come back to." He then gently tilted her chin towards him and covered her lips with his.

SSS

Sherrinford was compromised all right. It had been entirely too easy to overpower an unsuspecting guard who was sweeping the grounds for security breaches. It had been even easier to gain access to Sherrinford posing as the guard. The governor who was supposed to be in full control of the facility, practically invited them in for tea.

Sherlock's lips involuntary curled into a smile. Mycroft looked absolutely ridiculous in that fisherman's outfit. Then again, Mycroft always did enjoy a bit of dressing up.

John and Mycroft sat side by side at a table in a small room. Someone deactivated the lock and the door to their 'holding cell' opened. The governor walked inside. Sherlock kept his face averted and held the rifle pointed down to the floor in front of him. Mycroft immediately started talking.

"This is a mistake. I'm the victim 'ere." He got to his feet and jerked a finger down to John. "This man stole my boat. 'e's a pirate."

Sherlock fought to keep from laughing. Damn, that south-west accent was good! Not as good as his own adopted Scottish accent though.

"Yeah, I really am," John agreed amiably.

"Please, sit down." It sounded like an order.

"I-I don't even know who 'e is!" Mycroft spat, but he did sit down.

"He's Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." The governor looked down at him. "What are you doing here?"

"It's a hospital. Any work?" John quipped.

"It's not a hospital."

Sherlock kept a humoured snort at bay when the governor held out a pass towards him, not even bothering to look at him as he was too preoccupied with John and Fisherman Mycroft in front of him.

"I want eyes on Eurus Holmes. Go straight to the Special Unit, deploy Green and Yellow Shift on my authority." The governor ordered him.

"Sir," Sherlock acknowledged the order in a thick accent.

He winked at his friend and brother before turning around. He raised the pass to a camera above the door. The door then buzzed, unlocked and Sherlock suddenly had everything he needed to meet the sister he'd erased from memory.

Sherlock made his way through the facility and trotted down some stairs, swiping the governor's card through readers to grant him access when needed. He finally made it to a lift.

" _Are you in?"_ Mycroft's voice said in his ear.

Sherlock put his right hand to his ear and touched the comm device so he could respond. "Just arriving at the Secure Unit. Explain."

He turned around when the lift reached the right floor and an automated voice alerted him the doors were about to open.

Sherlock exited the lift and walked along a long corridor, keeping in mind to slouch and rock his body from side to side, disguising his normal gait.

" _A prison within a prison. Eurus must be allowed the strict minimum of human interaction."_

"Why?" Sherlock asked quietly.

" _Since you're determined to meet her, you're about to find out."_

SSS

Sherlock reached the far end of the corridor and stopped between two white-shirted guards. He could hear the sound of a song being played on a violin... Eurus' song. Sherlock showed no outward signs of recognising it.

"Eyes on Eurus Holmes," he said as he unslung the riffle from his shoulder and handed it to one of the guards. "Governor's orders."

Sherlock was allowed to proceed and at the Special Unit he stepped onto a marked area on the floor, just a few feet in front of a door. The white lighting above his head began to oscillate back and forth as he was being scanned.

Sherlock now noticed the violin music had shifted to a different song. It was audible from where a man was sitting at a nearby set of computer screens. Another white-shirted guard stood beside the door and regarded him curiously.

"You 'aven't been down 'ere before, 'ave you? 'Silence of the Lambs,' basically."

"You what?" Sherlock asked. He had no idea what 'silence of the lambs' was supposed to mean.

"Keep your distance. Stay at least three feet away from the glass an' all that," the guard clarified.

The lights above Sherlock's head turned green and then back to white. He looked across to the man at the screens. He had headphones in his ears. Sherlock jerked his head toward him.

"Why the headphones?" he asked curiously.

"She doesn't stop playin', sometimes for weeks."

"Beautiful," Sherlock remarked.

"Kills you in the end."

"Aye. Still beautiful, though."

The door in front of him slid open and revealed a small lift inside. He walked in and heard the automated voice alert him the doors were closing. As they did, Sherlock instantlystraightened up from his slouch. He took off the jacket and dropped it to the floor. He looked at his shoes and wondered at the stupidity of people. No one had even noticed his shoes were all wrong!

As the lift travelled down, he raked his hand through his curls and prepared to meet his sister.


	110. Believing is Seeing

**A/N Sorry all, with Kyrie not around, there are many parts in these chapters that's just rehashing the episode. Another reason for now writing out the first two tests!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 I never got why they were so upset with Mycroft. He'd just been a teenager when Eurus was taken away and of course he would have believed uncle Rudy's opinion. When he grew up, he did what he thought was best, however misguided that was.**

 **Companion Teresa Thank you very much! Also, you are very welcome! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter, even though it's just... the episode with some thoughts mixed in.**

 **Musical Bear Trying to no spoil anything... I just want to say that you are reading too much in Sherlock's last sentence. I had to look up what a face claim is and no, I don't have one. Simply because I can't think of anyone who resembles Kyrie enough for that.**

 **IronLace No Spoilers!**

SSS

The doors slid open. The first thing Sherlock noticed was the wide wall made up of three floor-to-ceiling glass panels that were impossibly translucent.

On each of the panels, about three feet from the floor, he could see a notice reading in white letters 'MAINTAIN DISTANCE OF THREE FEET'. On the other side of the glass he could see a large semi-circular room lined with bare grey panels. Soft white lighting fell in from the tops of the panels. There was a bed at the far end of the room and to the left a seat and table fastened to the wall. He detected no other furniture.

Sherlock only needed but a few seconds to take in all these details, even as his gaze was drawn to the lithe figure standing in the middle of the room. Eurus, his sister.

She was bathing in a green glow that emanated from the ceiling, standing with her back to the door, playing an intricate piece on her violin.

Sherlock stepped forward and the lift door closed behind him. His heart picked up a beat. A bright white light flickered to life as he stepped inside and the overhead lighting in Eurus' cell turned from green to white.

She stopped playing and just stood there for a while, unmoving. Then she started to play again, this time the familiar tune of her song.

Sherlock stood silently, blinking as the by now familiar images flashed through his mind. He realised... the young boy he kept seeing... that was himself. He pressed his lips together, suddenly feeling a bit uncomfortable, but he didn't move while Eurus continued to play.

When Eurus showed no inclination of acknowledging his presence, Sherlock took one more step forward. Eurus seemed to sense, somehow, when he stepped over the advised boundary of one meter and instantly responded to his digression by playing a frenetic and rapid string of notes. He quickly lifted his foot from the floor and moved it back. Eurus resumed her previous tune.

When she finally finished her tune, she lowered her bow, but still didn't turn around. Her voice suddenly came through the speakers.

"Did you bring it?" she asked.

"I'm sorry?"

Sherlock felt annoyed that he responded so lamely. Right now his brain simply refused to cooperate with him. He imagined it was the shock of now talking to... his sister.

"My hairband. Did you bring it like I asked?"

"I'm not one of the... I-I don't work here," he stammered, his voice soft.

"My special hairband," she repeated.

"I'm _not_ one of your doctors." This time he spoke more firmly, his voice louder.

"The one I made you steal," Eurus clarified, her voice a bit agitated. "... from Mummy."

She suddenly turned to face him. Sherlock gulped. It was like looking into some kind of twisted mirror. He knew he was staring at an image of what he could have looked like... had he been a woman.

"It was the last thing I said to you, remember, the day they took me away."

He shook his head slightly. "No."

"No?"

"No, we've spoken since then. You came round to my flat a few weeks back. You pretended to be a woman called Faith Smith. We had chips," he smiled slightly at the memory. "I gave you my wife's coat and... you made me laugh."

"Does this mean you _didn't_ bring my hairband?" she asked him, ignoring his remark.

Sherlock's smiled faded. "How did you manage to get out of this place? How did you do that?" he asked a bit breathlessly.

"Easy. Look at me," she ordered him.

"I _am_ looking at you."

"You are not observing. You can't see it, can you? You try and try but you just can't see. You _can't_ look."

There was something in her voice that made him feel uneasy. It was hard to focus when her voice registered as tiny pin pricks in his brain.

"See what?" he asked.

Eurus held out the violin towards him. "What do you think?" she asked.

"Beautiful," he said promptly.

"You're not looking at it," she said accusingly.

He swallowed and briefly closed his eyes. "I meant your playing," he said, his voice precise. He sensed it again. As if... as if he was missing something. Something important!

"Oh, the music." Eurus lowered the violin and turned it round to look at the front. _"_ I never know if it's beautiful or not. Only if it's right."

"Often they're the same thing," Sherlock insisted.

She looked up at him. "If they're not always the same thing, what's the point in beauty? Look at the violin," she ordered.

"I need to know how you escaped."

"Look at the _violin_ ," she ordered again, her voice firmer this time.

He did as she asked and focussed in on the instrument. "It's a Stradivarius," he said, awed that his sister would possess an instrument created by the master himself.

"It's a gift," she said.

"Who from?"

"Me."

She walked to her right. Sherlock followed her gaze and noticed the hatch set into the wall and floor at the edge of the glass. Eurus put the violin and bow into it and the opening revolves round to Sherlock's side of the glass. She then walked back into the middle of the room while Sherlock went over to pick up the violin and bow.

He walked back to the middle of the floor, reverently looking down at the Strad he now held. "Why?'

"You play, don't you?"

"How did you know?"

She turned her head towards him. "How did I know? I taught you, don't you remember? How can you not remember that?"

"Eurus," he said hesitantly. "I don't remember you at all."

His sister gave him a slight smile. "Interesting. Mycroft told me you'd rewritten your memories. He didn't tell me you'd written me out completely."

"What do you mean, 'rewritten'?" Sherlock asked her. His heart was thudding in his chest and he could feel clammy sweat in the palms of his hands. Rewritten. Not... deleted, forgotten, erased... rewritten. He felt a bit dizzy in his head.

She gave him an intense look. "You still don't know about Redbeard, do you?"

He didn't answer her, just gave her a grim look.

"Oh. This is going to be such a good day."

They regarded each other for a long moment.

"Play for me," she requested out of the blue.

"I need to know how you got out of here." Sherlock told her again.

"You know already," she said in exasperation. Look at me. Look and play."

Keeping his eyes trained on her, Sherlock lifted the violin and started to play the first notes of Bach's Sonata No.1 in G minor. It was the same tune he'd been playing when Moriarty came to his flat all these years ago... after his trial fell apart.

Sherlock managed no more than a few notes when Eurus interrupted him. "No, not Bach. You clearly don't understand it. Play you."

"Me?" he repeated lamely.

" _You_."

Sherlock tried to swallow past a lump and hesitated for a moment before he lifted the bow and began to play the song he'd composed for Kyrie. His attempt to persuade her from not divorcing him.

All his feelings for her; his longing, his despair, his hope... his desire... All poured into this one song.

Again, he only got to play a couple of notes before Eurus interrupted him again.

"Oh! 'Kyrie's song'."

The bow scratched over a string making an awful sound. Sherlock's eyes widened in terror when he lifted his eyes to look at his sister. His heart was hammering in his chest as if it wanted to punch a hole straight through him. "H-how do you know that?" he stammered.

"I played it. When I visited her. People are so breakable. One tiny bullet and she's out like a light. She seemed to like it when I played for her though. She likes the song. Continue playing, please."

Sherlock felt ill to his stomach, bile rose in his throat but he did as Eurus instructed him and continued the song "You... visited... my wife?" he asked, his voice raspy.

"I was curious. From what Mycroft told me about you, I never considered you to be the marrying type." Eurus then tutted at him. "You didn't visit her though."

"Because _you_ put me on a case."

Eurus regarded him, taking in every expression that flitted across his features.

"I was just trying to get to know my brother."

"Why were you curious about Kyrie?"

"Why wouldn't I be curious about the woman who was dumb enough to willingly step in front of a bullet to save you? Not that I'm not glad you're alive... but, it wasn't exactly smart now was it?"

"Are you suggesting you would have let me die?"

"Yes," she replied without batting an eye. "The importance of me supersedes the importance of you. In the end, everyone wants to live. Well, most people want to live... Is that vibrato or is your hand shaking?"

He finished the long last note he was playing, then stopped and lowered the violin and bow. He briefly walked to the hatch to place the invaluable instrument into it. Eurus lifted one side of her mouth in a smile. Sherlock wondered if she could actually experience and discern an emotion like humour. "Clearly, you remember _me_ ," he said walking back, watching her.

Eurus slowly walked forward. "I remember everything; every single thing. You just need a big enough hard drive."

" _Sherlock."_ John's voice suddenly sounded in his ear.

"Not now," he told him quietly.

" _Vatican Cameos,"_ John then said, his voice urgent.

"In a minute." Sherlock took out small comm device and put it into his trouser pocket.

Eurus cocked her head at him. "Let's continue."

She walked closer towards him until she stopped just a few steps back from the glass wall. Sherlock's head was buzzing, as if his mind wanted to draw his attention to something, but he couldn't figure out what.

"Did they tell you to keep three feet from the _glass_?"

"Ye-es."

"Be naughty. Step closer."

"Why?" He asked, lifting his chin at her.

"Do it. Step closer."

He started forward, but changed his mind. He briefly pulled is lips in a tight line. "Tell me what you remember."

"You, me, and Mycroft." Eurus drew in an audible breath. "Mycroft was quite clever. He could understand things if you went a bit slow but you... you were my favourite."

As if mesmerised, Sherlock took a small step forward, then brought his feet together again. "Why was I your favourite?" he asked her.

Eurus too took one step forward. "'Cause I could make you laugh. I _loved_ it when you laughed. Once I made you laugh all night. I thought you were going to burst."

He couldn't contain the small smile from blossoming on his lips.

"I was so happy," she told him.

He took another step forward.

"Then Mummy and Daddy had to stop me, of course."

"Why?" His voice barely registered above a whisper.

Eurus mimicked his forward movement. "Well, turns out I got it wrong. Apparently, you were screaming."

The small blossoming smile died. "Why was I screaming?"

The blue door in his Mind Palace creaked open once more and he could hear the soft whimpering of his dog. "Redbeard," he whispered.

Sherlock raised his eyes again. "I remember Redbeard."

She took another step closer to the glass. "Do you, now?"

He stepped forward too. "Tell me what I don't know."

His sister stared up at him, her gaze intense. "Touch the glass."

Sherlock frowned at her but he didn't comply. Instead, he wanted to prove to her he did remember Redbeard. "Redbeard was my dog. I know what happened to Redbeard," he told her with another defiant tilt of his chin.

Eurus suddenly adopted a tone as if she were talking to a witless child. "Oh, Sherlock, you know nothing. Touch the glass, and I'll tell you the truth."

He pursed his lips and swallowed hard. Her emotionless eyes were fixed on his and he wondered... Had he ever been like that? So... cold and distant... and unfeeling.

Eurus started to lift her left arm. "I'll touch it too, if you're scared."

He stared at her raised hand, her fingers curled slightly.

"You think it's a trick," Eurus softly said. "You look so... unsure. You're not used to being unsure, are you?"

Sherlock thought back to his past mistakes and the many moments he had not known what to do. "It's more common than you'd think," he admitted softly.

"Look at you."

Sherlock slowly raised his right hand to match hers, drawn by her voice.

"The man who sees through everything... is exactly the man who doesn't notice..."

It was as if he was no longer in control of his body. As her voiced droned on, he looked – mesmerised – as they both straightened their fingers. They both slowly moved their hands towards each other.

At the moment when their hands should touch the glass however, Eurus expectantly reached forward a little further and their fingertips touched. He blinked in surprise when she suddenly linked her fingers into his. She gasped in mock-surprise. "... when there's nothing to see through."

He let out a shaky breath and raised his eyes to hers. She smiled at him. "Do you see how it was done? I know you like explanations."

He blinked rapidly and looked at their linked hands. Suddenly it seemed as if a veil was pulled away in his mind, making things... clearer. Sherlock looked at the warnings. He'd _assumed_ they were on the glass, but no, they were attached and projecting sideways from the uprights that _should_ have been holding the glass.

"Signs," he said breathlessly. "You suspended the signs."

"And my voice? Throat mic. Puts me through the speakers."

There was a little click and suddenly her voice was clear.

"Echo," he whispered. "I still should have heard the echo of your voice."

"Ah, but you didn't expect to hear one, so you didn't. With just a few words... I made you believe. Don't you think it's clever? Simple but clever?"

"Transparent," he said, his voice still unsteady.

"Well, you do keep asking me how I got out of here."

Eurus unfolded her fingers and slowly pulled her hand away. "Well... Like this. And now, we are going to get to know each other a little better. We have a lot of catching up to do, after all."

Sherlock furrowed his brows as she just stood in front of him, looking at him. She then quickly sucked in a harsh breath and brought up both arms. He cried out before he knew what was happening but the dull pain in his head was a transparent clue.

He fell backwards to the floor and she instantly hurled herself on top of him, shrieking savagely into his face as she pressed her right arm down onto his throat.

 _Oh for fuck's sake! Not again!_ He struggled under her as she screamed out loudly.

"Get in here, all of you! Stop me killing him!"

First Smith and now his own damn sister was trying to strangle him?

He heard the door of the lift open and the sound of running footsteps. He tried to struggle up but his sister was surprisingly strong as she easily held his arms down with her left hand and right foot.

She raised her head and suddenly calmly spoke as if she hadn't just screamed at him like a banshee. "No, no. Stop me in a minute."

Eurus then lowered her head, pulled in a deep breath and started to scream into his face again as she continued to strangle him. Sherlock winced at the piercing sound.


	111. Sherlock's Choice

**A/N Loving spending time with the girls. Now that I'm done with TFP I am leisurely writing the rest of their story. Not sure when it ends yet, there's still some stuff I want to tell. I do know how it ends though. I think you guys still have a couple of chapters worth after you get to the end of TFP**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 We are having a lovely time! Spent the day playing 7th Continent. Youngest wants to give Barbarians a go tomorrow. Which I will have to figure out alone with her since eldest will be visiting her boyfriend. And my new crockpot arrived today which I intend to try out tomorrow! Previous one died on me :-( I am really curious what direction you thought this story was taking. And I'm even more curious what you think of this chapter! Please, do let me know!**

 **Companion Teresa I'm don't understand what you mean with the first line. What can happen when you watch a tv show or movie? I'm excited that most of you like what I did with Eurus so far! Don't forget to let me know what you think of this chapter okay?**

 **IronLace Yes, though I doubt that was Eurus' intention, she was responsible for waking up Kyrie because she responded to hearing _her_ song. And thank you for you compliment! **

**DreamonAlina No problem. I'm happy you are still reading my story! I hope that you like my take on this episode, particularly how I changed up the 'coffin' and 'phone call' scene.**

 **Purplestan Glad to know you didn't see that one coming. I need to be able to keep you on your toes! It would be sad if my story no longer surprises or entertains.**

 **SSS**

Sherlock's heart was thudding dully in his chest. His head was reeling. What a mess they were in! He, John and Mycroft, at the mercy of a very unstable individual... his own sister.

Apparently she'd succeeded in completely taking over the Sherrinford facility and was now running them like lab rats because, like her slightly older brother, she had a liking for... experimenting. Eurus however, seemed partial to experimenting with human nature.

" _I'm particularly focussed on internal conflicts, where strategising around a largely intuitive moral code appears to create a counter-intuitive result,"_ she'd said.

His mind was being pulled in several directions at once. He was trying to figure out what the hell Eurus wanted from them. He also wanted to know exactly how she'd managed to do all this. From the little snippets he'd heard from her and Mycroft... he could hazard a guess.

This... all this... somehow it was all for him. But why? From the little information he'd gleaned, he'd started making his deductions.

Obviously, she's managed to get in contact with Jim Moriarty. Eurus had the uncanny ability to manipulate people into doing her bidding, without them even noticing, so getting to the governor on her hand was an easy first step. Gas-lighting. He'd already experienced some of that first hand.

Sherlock figured that establishing actual contact with Moriarty had been the hard part. The rest would have been... dead easy. _"Oh, he recorded lots of little messages for me before he died. Before I made him jump."_

The recorded messages, though grating as they were... that was not what she'd been after. No... Moriarty's network, his connections, his money, his power and influence. _That's_ what she'd wanted and that's what she now had.

First the governor, then Moriarty and then BAM... Suddenly she had access to all the Consulting Criminal had to offer her. The recorded messages were just a boon.

Sherlock was willing to bet anything that, if he looked closer at the background of the guards in this facility, he'd find out they'd been swapped in to replace the regular personnel and that this personnel... were all tied to Moriarty's network some how.

It had helped of course that Moriarty was Sherlock's vowed enemy and probably hadn't needed a lot of convincing at all. And Moriarty was a sure way to get his interest and lure him to Sherrinford.

That's what he got so far. Again the question rose in his mind... Why? Why was she subjecting her brothers to such mental torture? Mycroft had positively become unhinged at the sight of the governor killing himself in an attempt to save his wife.

" _You want to save the governor's wife? Choose either Doctor Watson or Mycroft to kill the governor._ _ **You**_ _can't do it, Sherlock. If you do it, it won't count. I'll kill her anyway. It has to be your brother or your friend."_

They'd failed.

Mycroft had become visibly upset at the prospect of having to kill someone and he'd refused to have that kind of blood on his ends. In the end, even John, the battle-hardened soldier who'd taken many lives in the war, who had not flinched when shooting someone when Sherlock's life had been in peril... He too could not bring himself to pull the trigger.

In the end, the governor had taken his own life. It had rattled them all, but Mycroft most of all. As it turned out, his dear brother was not so unfeeling as he pretended to be, after all. Sadly, the governor's sacrifice had been in vain. Eurus had ordered that either John or Mycroft had to kill him. Their refusal ended up in the governor killing himself. And that had ended up in Eurus killing the governor's wife after all.

On top of ALL of that, somewhere there was a lonely scared little girl, high up in the sky on a plane. Adults a sleep, no way to land the plane herself. It was up to them to... minimise the damage. And Eurus would only let them speak to the girl when she was satisfied with their progress.

Eurus second 'test' forced them to solve a six month old murder. Unsolved case, except of course by her. She expected Sherlock to do the same with nothing to go on but the photographs of three suspects. Three brothers. Nathan Garrideb, Alex Garrideb and Howard Garrideb.

" _Please, make use of your friends, Sherlock. I want to see you interact with people that you're close to. Also, you may have to choose which one to keep."_

Sherlock nervously pulled a hand over his face. He could feel the blood pound in his ears. His hands shook slightly. Not handy when he was carrying a gun in one of them. His feet tingled and his vision disfigured, as if he was looking through a fish-eye lens.

" _Do you have a suspicion we're being made to compete?"_ Mycroft had asked John.

" _No, we're not competing. There's a plane in the air that's gonna crash, so what we're doing is actually trying to save a little girl. Today we have to be soldiers, Mycroft, soldiers..."_

His brother was many things... a pretentious prick, rubbish big brother, somewhat better brother-in-law and... well, he supposed Mycroft did have his uses... but a soldier he was not.

And then Eurus had suddenly upped the ante.

" _Now, as I understand it, Sherlock, you try to repress your emotions to refine your reasoning. I'd like to see how that works, so, if you don't mind, I'm going to apply some context to your deductions."_

Eurus had not only expected Sherlock to solve the murder, she'd also wanted him to point out the killer so his younger sister could then exact 'justice', meaning death. _Repress emotions to refine reasoning_. Bit hard to do with three men dangling outside on ropes, each at risk of plummeting to their deaths. And he'd had to pick one of them and condemn him.

It had been so easy to step back into the shoes of his old self... cold, detached reasoning. It had been frighteningly easy. He'd looked, he'd observed and he'd deduced.

" _ **Say**_ _it. Condemn him. Condemn him in the knowledge of what will happen to the man you name."_

He'd had no other choice. Like a lamb brought to slaughter, he'd looked at Alex. And he'd spoken his name. Quietly but determinedly. _"I condemn Alex Garrideb."_

Instead of dropping Alex, Eurus had dropped the two other innocent brothers two their deaths. That action had sent John into a fit of rage and he demanded to know why she'd done so.

She'd then gone even further by claiming it made no difference, killing the innocent instead of the guilty. Then she'd dropped Alex too, just to make her point.

John had stared at the window, his teeth bared while he was breathing heavily. Mycroft had been unusually quiet.

" _Don't let her distract you."_

" _Distract me?"_

" _Soldiers today,"_ Sherlock had reminded John.

They were now on their way to their next 'test'. Sherlock could hear his pulse banging in his ears and he could feel sweat dripping down his back. He couldn't help but wonder what dreadful thing lurked behind the next door. _Repress emotions to refine reasoning._ He found that was no longer so easy to do. His heart had been 'feeling' too much lately. _"Caring is not an advantage, little brother."_ Though Sherlock could definitely see the point, to an extent, it was no longer the lonely life he wanted to get back to.

Further along a narrow corridor another door slid open and Sherlock tentatively walked through the doorway. He held the pistol in both hands lowered towards the floor while John and Mycroft followed him. Mycroft definitely looking a bit worse for wear.

Sherlock looked around the small room with black walls and floor, no window, and the room was only dimly lit. There was a wall screen, but at the moment it only showed pouring water.

In the middle of the room, resting on two trestles, was a polished cherry wooden coffin with copper decorative corner panels, matching bar handles, but no lid.

A pale light shone down onto it. He walked across and looked down into the coffin, noticing the pale lilac velvet, then raised his head to look for the light source. He squinted his eyes and saw a narrow open chimney in the middle of the ceiling from which daylight flooded in. So, it was still daytime then. He'd wondered as he'd long since lost track of time.

He was just about to walk towards the lid of the coffin that was propped up against the far wall, when the speaker clicked and Eurus started talking.

" _One more minute on the phone,"_ she told them.

The speakers squealed for a moment and then they could hear the little girl again.

" _Frightened. I'm really frightened,"_ she said. She sounded as if she was on the verge of tears.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He felt so damn tired. If... No, WHEN they got out of this, all he wanted was to crash in bed and sleep for a week. Preferably curled around Kyrie's soft and warm body. Make love when he had the taste for it but otherwise just... sleep.

He cleared his throat. "It's okay, don't worry. I don't have very long with you, so I just need you to tell me what you can see outside the plane."

" _Just the sea. I can see the sea."_

"Are there ships on it?" he asked her further.

" _No ships. I can see lights in the distance."_

"Is it a city?"

" _I think so."_

He turned and looked at John who was standing beside him at the side of the coffin. Mycroft was standing at the other side. "She's about to fly over a city in a pilotless plane. We'll have to talk her through it," he said quietly.

"Through what?" John inquired. There was a deep fold between his furrowed brows.

" _Hello? Are you still there?"_

"Still here. Just give us a minute."

"Getting the plane away from any mainland, any populated areas. It _has_ to crash in the sea."

John gave him an incredulous look. "What about the girl?"

"Well, obviously, Doctor Watson, she's the one who's going to crash it," Mycroft explained, his voice still soft, but very firm.

"No. W-we could help her land it."

"And if we fail, and she crashes into a city? How many will die then?"

"How are we gonna get her to do that?"

Mycroft looked down towards the coffin for a moment, a look of infinite sadness in his eyes. At the moment, there was no trace of the cold aloof Mycroft Holmes now. "I'm afraid we're going to have to give her hope."

"Is there really no one there that can help you? Have you really, _really_ checked?" Sherlock asked her hopefully, raising his voice so the girl could hear him. He was grasping at straw, he knew it, but he didn't know if he could wilfully guide this young girl through the steps that would lead to her own demise.

" _Everyone's asleep. Will you help me?"_

How was he supposed to answer that? "We're going to do everything that we can."

" _I'm scared. I'm really scared."_

"It's all right," he said, his voice soothing. "I..."

He stopped when he heard another click over the speakers. He felt ill. He didn't have it in him to stomach any more of Eurus' mind games.

" _Now, back to the matter in hand,"_ Eurus told them. _"Coffin. Problem: someone is about to die. It will be – as I understand it – a tragedy."_

Sherlock walked around to the head of the coffin, rubbing the thumb of his gun hand over his brow as he turned to look at it.

" _So many days not lived, so many joys not experienced. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera."_

"Yes, yes, yes," Sherlock snapped in exasperation, "And this – I presume – will be their coffin."

" _ **Whose** coffin, Sherlock? Haven't you guessed it yet? Please, start your deductions. I will apply some context in a moment."_

Sherlock stopped his pacing around, turned towards the head of the coffin and blew out a noisy breath. The adrenalin flew over his veins like a carp through the river. "Well, allowing for the entirely pointless courtesy of headroom, I'd say this coffin is intended for someone of about five foot four. Makes it more likely to be a woman." He said while walking around it, taking in every detail. _Repress emotions to refine reasoning._

"Not a child?" John ventured.

"Could be, this is... quite an elaborate and expensive coffin. Higher price range and the best available in that bracket at best.

"A lonely night on Google," John said softly while rolling his eyes. Sherlock ignored the comment.

"This is an emotional choice. The best of the best? Hardly a practical or informed decision. Balance of probability suggests that this is for a married woman who is cherished and- and loved. That much is suggested by the high value of choice."

Sherlock was still focussing on the coffin and thus paid his brother little attention when he walked closer to the lid, picked it up and turned it to look at the top side.

"Not tacky or garish, so a preference for clean elegance. Also, the lining of the coffin..."

"Yes, very good, Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted him. "Or we could just look at the name on the lid."

Mycroft turned it towards the others. The pale look on his brother's face immediately put Sherlock on red alert. Slowly, Sherlock walked closer to look at it. When he finally saw what it said on the lid he felt like someone had viciously punched him in the gut. He gasped, forcing all of the air from his lungs, and then he couldn't breath. It felt as if someone was choking him.

The words swam in front of his eyes. Everything else fell away and every natural body movement screeched to a halt.

"Only it isn't a name," Mycroft said, his voice shaky.

Sherlock couldn't believe his eyes. Didn't want to anyway.

"No," he whispered.

I LOVE YOU

John wasn't so quick. "So, it's for somebody who loves somebody," he said hesitantly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes but otherwise seemed to want to steer John in the right direction. "It's for somebody who loves Sherlock, John," he said, his voice deflated and weak. "This is all about him. Everything here."

John's eyes widened a little and then groaned as if he was in pain.

Sherlock slowly walked back to the coffin and put his hands on top of it at the head end. His heart hammered and his brain was short-circuiting with terrifying thoughts. He felt the urge to vomit, already the bile was collecting in his otherwise dry throat. His legs felt like they were no longer his and they began to tremble the same way they did in deep winter cold.

"Kyrie," he uttered her name on a broken whisper.

" _She's **perfectly** safe, for the moment."_

The screen switched to four images from camera footage of the interior of a home.

" _She received a message that she 'thinks' came from Mycroft's personal assistant. A suitable temporary home needs to be found of course, now your little flat is a bit... scorched. 'Anthea' kindly provided her with an option. She's there to evaluate the place for suitability. I may have rigged it to explode however..."_

Sherlock blankly stared at the screen and walked towards it.

" _... unless you make a choice."_

"What choice?" he snapped.

" _You can't have both, Sherlock. Either you keep her love and she dies, or you lose her love and she gets to live."_

"Say what?" John asked. "Wh-what kind of choice is THAT?"

" _A choice Sherlock will have to make."_

Sherlock pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. "That's not a choice, Eurus, because the result, in both cases, will be the same... I lose her."

" _Yes. But, one of those choices saves her life. That should make you happy. Don't you think it's fitting? She had to make a choice as well and she was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. Her life for yours. At least this time it's... not your life that's at stake."_

Eurus had no idea how wrong she was with that assumption. His heart seemed to have made an impossible descent downwards in his body, because he swore he could feel it struggle to maintain the dull thudding... in his stomach.

"How..." he asked, not able to finish his question.

" _Tell her you want a divorce."_

Mycroft's shoulders were hunched and he seemed appalled at the very idea. Until suddenly John started to laugh. "She'll never believe it! Not in a million years!" John told Eurus. "Don't you know what they've been through? If Sherlock tells her _now_ he wants to divorce..." He shook his head vigorously. "... she won't believe it. _Never_!"

" _Well, I guess that means he will become a widow."_ Her gaze grew intense as she stared into the camera without blinking. _"I'm calling her on your phone, Sherlock. Make her believe it,_ _or she dies._ _Oh, one important restriction. You're not allowed to mention in any way at all that her life is in danger."_

Sherlock pressed his lips together again.

" _You may not – at any point – suggest that there is any form of crisis. If you do, I will end this session and her life. Are we clear?"_

His nostrils flared when Sherlock nodded at his sister and then the multiple tones of a speed dial ringing out could be heard...


	112. Going Out in Style

**A/N The chapter in which Sherlock tries to break Kyrie's heart. Will he succeed?**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Oh thank you so much for that review! It feels so good to know you like the changes I made so far. I can't 'fix' everything, most of the episode was just ludicrous, but the acting and emotions really wanted me to write it. I've been looking forward to this from the moment I started this story. I knew from the beginning that Kyrie was the one he'd call. Of course... it makes for the most emotional impact!**

 **Purplestan Haha thanks for letting me know I surprised you there as well! I'm glad you felt it was an intense chapter. I hope you feel the same about this one!**

 **Wynnleaf That's exactly why I wanted Sherlock to have to call Kyrie. Because so much more is at stake than 'just' hurting his friend's feelings.**

 **Artemis7448 Still okay? I did my best to make this chapter as emotional as I could. I hope you like it.**

 **Guest I just like torturing them. No growth without emotional drama. LOTS OF IT!**

 **IronLace Hm... you just might want to steer clear from this chapter... Just a bit of a warning ;-)**

 **DreamonAlina I know... but we all know the one thing that Kyrie feels unsure about, don't we? Herself...**

 **Thewickedprinces I love responses like these... Sometimes I think... really? You don't know me by now? I thought this 'twist' was pretty obvious since I'm just an evil person who likes to torture reviewers and her own characters alike.**

 **Kuppcake I certainly hope so! I did try! So, please do let me know, on a scale of 1 to 10, how tough was it?**

 **Okay, no more talk... read! And review please!**

SSS

His mouth and throat dried up like a desert. His heart flopped around like a fish on dry land, struggling to just keep going, unaware its life was already forfeit.

The choice of the damned... Because, no matter what choice he made, he'd lose her either way.

The phone connected and started ringing out. In the kitchen of the home she was inspecting, Kyrie was standing with her elbows on the front of the sink, her head in her hands.

Her phone began to ring and she fished it from her coat pocket to look at it. A slow smile spread on her face, turning it radiant – instantly clearing the weariness, when she saw the caller I.D. which Sherlock knew was simply his name... 'Sherlock'. Not something else, like 'Mare' for Mary, or 'My' for Mycroft, or 'Jawn' for John.

Sherlock still didn't like 'Jawn'. He'd pouted when Kyrie explained _that's_ what it sometimes sounded like when he simply and _clearly_ said 'John'. Kyrie had laughed in his face and then kissed him silly. He hadn't minded that.

A lump formed in his throat when her eyes suddenly seemed to come to life with a vibrant violet sparkle. A sparkle he had to dull.

Unable to watch the giddy look on her face, Sherlock – still holding the pistol in both hands – lowered his forehead on top of it.

Kyrie then answered. _"Hey Sherlock. Guess what I'm doing now?"_

He lifted his head at the random question. "Um, I don't know. Wh-what are you... doing?" His voice cracked a bit and it instantly drew her attention, making her eyes turn a paler shade of violet. She was worried and she didn't instantly reply.

" _Anthea gave me an address... Lovely little place we can stay until Baker Street is habitable again. We can't exactly keep crashing at John and Mary's... I actually missed an appointment this morning that Anthea set up, but Mycroft was coming over and... Are you okay?"_

 _Flop, flop_

His heart, still flopping like a fish in his stomach, fought bravely as it slowly died. He clenched his jaw to keep it from quivering so. How the hell was he supposed to do this?

" _Sherlock?"_

"I, um, I've changed my mind..."

Genius! That _really_ explained things.

He pulled in a deep breath through his nose, the airflow flaring his nostrils.

"... about us. You once told me you did not want to wait for the moment we start to resent each other. You said... the moment I wanted out, all I had to do was let you know..."

He paused, realising he was destroying his own future here. He should have known all along; happiness... love... it wasn't meant for him. Not Sherlock Holmes. He closed his eyes when he uttered the words. "This is me... letting you know I want out."

" _This is the last time, Sherlock, I really can't do this again,"_ her voice whispered in his head. She'd warned them there would be no more chances.

Her lips parted in shock; her brows arched, the blood ran from her face. _"Sherlock,"_ she said, her voice low, _"If this is your idea of a joke... it's not funny."_

Sherlock yanked open the door of the new room in his Mind Palace, where his old persona was stored. He effortlessly strode out.

" _I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."_

" _Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs."_

"A joke is when someone says or does something to provoke laughter or cause amusement, as a witticism, a short and amusing anecdote, or a prankish act. Neither you nor I are laughing right now."

Sherlock's managed to make his voice sound cool and collected, but on the inside he was slowly crumbling. He just had to make sure she believed him, before he fell apart.

" _Why, Sherlock? And why now?"_

"This has nothing to do with you, I want you to know that. But you and I both know what kind of person I am. All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things... even you. The path that I'm walking, I must go alone. I find that... in my life, there is no more room for you. I'm sorry."

" _Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now."_

She shook her head – eyes closed – her hand pressed to her forehead. _"I swear to you, if this is one of your_ _ **stupid**_ _games..."_

"No," he rasped. "Not a game.

" _I-I don't understand..."_ she shook her head again. _"I thought..."_

"I don't love you," he suddenly blurted out. "I thought I did, but I don't. I'm sorry."

Kyrie pulled her lips in a tight line and her eyes grew stormy. Instead of making her believe, he was just making her angry. He closed his eyes. She was not just accepting this. He had to hurt her where she was the most vulnerable, her self-doubt, the role she had in his life and the significance it held for him... something she was always doubting. Even _if_ he'd went to hell and back for her.

"You don't fit in, Kyrie. You were right... All you do is-is bring tea and biscuits. But I need more. I need people in my life who can keep up with me. And-and you can't. Even when you wanted to save my life, a sentiment I do appreciate, but... you could have pushed me out of the way instead of jumping in front of the bullet. I'm... I'm sorry I have to inform you like this..."

Sherlock had to stop for a moment when a croaking sound escaped his throat; he pressed his hands against his eyes. He just couldn't bring himself to saying the next words, but he knew he had to.

"I want out, Kyrie. I want a divorce. And... I'd appreciate your full cooperation. You-you will..." _Breath Sherlock, just breath and say it..._ "You will be well compensated for the time and energy you wasted on a-an experiment that was doomed to fail from the start."

A last flop. The pitiful death-struggle of his heart finally ended. In a last ditch effort to not break down, Sherlock straightened his face and he looked at the screen without emotion.

He watched her eyes freeze over like the surface of a winter puddle, robbing them of their usual warmth. He wanted to reach in and tell her it was all a lie, that nothing he'd just said was true, that it wasn't hopeless, but he knew he couldn't.

Sherlock then looked on how his wife turned towards the sink and placed her hands on either side of it, her phone clutched in one of them.

Mycroft's head dropped and John turned his face away, unable to watch his closest friend fall apart.

The phone call suddenly ended. Kyrie had broken the connection. She just... stood there for a moment. Almost calm and collected. Then she suddenly doubled over and retched.

Sherlock blinked and reared back from the screen. He sighed heavily and buried his head in his hands, bending forward. When he lifted his head he felt dead inside and utterly exhausted. His brother walked over to him on unsteady feet and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock, however hard that was..."

He shrugged his brother's hand away and tiredly looked towards the camera on the wall. "Eurus, I won. I won."

Eurus did not respond.

"Come on, play fair. Tell me you'll keep your word. Tell me Kyrie is safe."

Silence.

"I won! She clearly believed me! You saw her! Now tell me that she is safe!"

Eurus made a disparaging noise and her image flickered back to life on the screen in front of him.

" _Saved her? From what? Oh, do be sensible. There were no explosives in that little house. Why would I be so clumsy? You_ _ **didn't**_ _win. You lost."_

Sherlock could feel his knees buckle under his weight.

" _ **Look**_ _what you did to her. Look what you did to yourself."_

He gagged. She'd never been in any real danger? Had he really, just now, delivered a fatal blow to his marriage with Kyrie... all for nothing? His vision became blurry and the pressure behind his eyes became unbearable. He pressed his fists against his eyes and started to groan.

" _All those complicated little emotions. I lost count. Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time and it clouds your vision. Because you_ _ **failed**_ _to see. To_ _ **really**_ _see. You failed."_

He stumbled past the coffin, angrily slamming the pistol down beside it, and then continued on towards the lid propped up against the wall.

" _Now, please, pull yourself together. I need you at peak efficiency. The next one isn't going to be so easy."_

One of the doors slid open. Mycroft turned to give it a weary look.

" _In your own time,"_ Eurus finally said, before the screen turned to the pouring water.

Sherlock carefully picked up the lid, turned and woodenly walked towards the coffin while Mycroft and John headed for the open door.

She hadn't been in any danger and he had just killed the only chance of 'happy families' he'd ever get. He'd ruined his own happiness to keep her safe. How noble. But it would not keep him warm at night. Kyrie would live on, somewhere where _he_ wasn't, hating him. And he couldn't even comfort himself with the fact he had saved her life. Because he hadn't.

He put the lid into place on top of the coffin then rest a trembling hand on the top and slowly, tenderly, drew his hand across towards him. He lowered his eyes as he breathed out a quiet sob. The coffin, he realised, was the last resting place of the greatest gift he'd known in life. And now... it was gone. He had killed it himself.

"Sherlock?" John called out to him.

A shiver ran down his spine. Insurmountable rage surged forward. His trembling fingers unbuttoned his jacket.

"No. No," he grunted, unable to accept what had just happened. And then... rage let out. He scrunched up his face as he pulled back his right arm and then let it rip. He put all of his strength behind one mighty punch and smashed his fist straight through the lid, shattering it. He drew back his hand and then slammed both of his fists down, as if that one inanimate object was solely responsible for the agony that currently assaulted all of his senses at once.

Wood splinters flew around his ears and he squinted his eyes to protect them as he brought down his fists again and again. He then seized the side of the coffin and lifted the whole thing before smashing it down repeatedly on top of the trestles. Fuelled by his all-consuming rage, Sherlock utterly destroyed the box, disintegrating the box into pieces.

A primitive cry tore from his chest, giving voice to his rage, his grief and frustration until finally he threw back his head and forced out a long anguished scream that completely depleted his lungs. He turned his eyes skywards and listened to his echoes spiralling upwards into the chimney and up into the air above this... this... Hell! Rain had arrived and poured downwards, while lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. He felt marginally better now the skies had decided to join him in his anguish.

He staggered towards the wall, slumped his back against it and slowly slid down, bending his legs up in front of him as he buried his hands in his hair.

Sherlock slumped down in the pit that had become his world. The only decorations his own nail marks of ineptitude on walls he could never hope to scale. The only light he knew had been up there, he'd just extinguished. Perhaps now was the time to realise he was never getting out. It would be better become accustomed to the darkness that now was all that remained in his heart.

Sherlock didn't look up when he heard footsteps walking across the room. The red haze of rage had cleared somewhat and now he just sat there, staring at the splinters and broken pieces of his handiwork.

"I tore myself down and rebuilt myself..." That pitiful hoarse rasp, was that his voice? "... to find that, in the end, I could have just saved myself the trouble. It was all for nothing. You were right, Mycroft..." Sherlock closed his eyes and his next words were a broken whisper. "... caring is not an advantage."

"Oh, do shut up!" Mycroft spat.

Sherlock raised his head and stared at his brother.

"Self-pity doesn't become you. What I told you about caring, that never applied to you. And I've been waiting a long time for you to tell me how wrong I was about that... Not for you to just roll over and concede. Now, fight back, damn you!" Mycroft closed his eyes, turning his face away from Sherlock and folded his arms.

John bent down to pick up the pistol from the floor. Straightening up, he cleared his throat softly and walked over to Sherlock. He stopped just a few paces in front of him.

"Look, I know this is difficult and I know you're being tortured," John told him quietly, but with a firm voice. "... but you have got to keep it together."

"This isn't torture; this is vivisection. We're experiencing science from the perspective of lab rats," Sherlock replied, his voice full of scorn. His hands were trembling.

"I know. But we need you for this. We just have to get through this and... Kyrie will understand that you were looking out for her. You thought her life was in danger. She'll understand."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not this time," he said. "You saw what I did to her. She warned me, John... You know yourself all the things I've put her through. When... when I returned... that was the last chance she was willing to give.

John chuckled a bit. "That's what she _said_ , Sherlock. You and I both know that woman never possessed a rational bone in her body when it comes to you. And even if she won't listen to you... there's always Mary and me. _If_ it comes down to it, we'll talk her round. But, for now..."

Sherlock glanced in his direction without turning his head, then swallowed and looked up at his friend. "Soldiers?" he asked.

John nodded at him. "Soldiers." He then bent down and held out his right hand to Sherlock. Sherlock looked up at him and, after a brief moment of hesitation, took it with his own right hand.

John puled him to his feet. Sherlock buttoned his jacket and rolled back his shoulders. Fine... if his little sister was so determined to get to know him, she'd find out exactly what he was made of. And afterwards... he'd go and find Kyrie and he would chain her to his side if that's what he needed to do, until she understood precisely just how far the depths of his love for her reached so she would abandon any and all thoughts she might have about leaving him.

John blew out a breath seeing the grim look on his face. They walked side-by-side to the doorway, where John handed him back the pistol. Sherlock simply took it as they went.

This time there was no corridor and the doorway lead directly into another grey-walled room. The lights in both rooms turned white again.

Sherlock's eyes flicked around the new room. No windows, again. Screen on each of the four walls. Nothing else. "Hey, sis, don't mean to complain but this one's empty," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "What happened? Did you run out of ideas?"

The screens flickered on and Eurus' face appeared on all four of them. She was still sitting in the governor's office.

" _It's not empty, Sherlock. You've still got the gun, haven't you? I_ _ **told**_ _you you'd need it, because only two can play the next game. Just two of you go on from here; your choice."_ The smile on her face was bright and cheery, as if she was just playing a fun game with her two brothers.

" _It's make-your-mind-up time. Whose help do you need the most – John or Mycroft? It's an elimination round. You choose one and kill the other. You have to choose family or friend. Mycroft or John Watson?"_

He slowly turned around to face his friend and brother. His mind, though already knowing the truth, was struggling against accepting it. Either his friend or his own blood would have to die by his hand. And Eurus made sure that it would be a burden he would forever have to carry alone, because he would never dare to face Kyrie again.

The lights suddenly turned red and Jim's mocking face appeared on the screen once more,tilting his head from one side to the other as he whispered loudly through his teeth. _"_ _Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick."_

"Eurus, enough!" Mycroft bellowed. The lights turned white again and Eurus was back.

" _Not yet, I think,"_ she smiled, _"_ _But nearly. Remember, there's a plane in the sky, and it's not going to land."_

Mycroft rubbed his hands over his face and then lowered them and stepped forward towards Sherlock.

"Well?" he said, a meaningful look in his eyes.

"Well, what?" Sherlock asked quietly, his mind still reeling with what he would have to do.

"We're not actually going to discuss this, are we?" he said and he turned his head towards John. "I'm sorry, Doctor Watson. You're a fine man in many respects." Mycroft then turned back to Sherlock. "Well, go on... Make your goodbyes and shoot him."

Sherlock mutely stood there, gaping at his brother.

Mycroft gave him a pointed look before gesturing towards John. " _Shoot_ him!" he ordered, raising his voice.

John stepped closer to him. "What?"

His brother merely glanced at his best friend for a brief moment, then turned back to look at him. The cogs and gears in Sherlock's head had come to a grinding halt and refused to budge.

"Shoot Doctor Watson. There's no question who has to continue from here. It's us, you and me. Whatever lies ahead requires brainpower, Sherlock, not sentiment. Don't prolong his agony. Shoot him."

"Do I get a say in this?" John asked, a wry smile turning up his lips.

"Today, we are soldiers. Soldiers die for their country. I regret, Doctor Watson, that privilege is now yours."

John glared at his brother, his jaw clenched. "Shit," he said in recognition, his voice soft and accepting. "He's right."

They both turned to face each other. The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned down, when he saw the determined look on John's face. "He is, in fact, right."

Though Mycroft looked at John, he addressed his next words to Sherlock. "Make it swift. No need to prolong his agony. Get it over with and we can get to work."

John shifted on the spot, then straightened himself up, bracing himself for what was to come. But Sherlock lowered his head and half-turned away. No... he couldn't. He couldn't do this. Maybe years ago. Back when one life or the other wouldn't have made that much of a difference for him. But, would it really have been John he would have shot? Or...?

Mycroft scoffed at him, then started to chuckle. He mocked him. "God!" Mycroft put his hands in his trouser pockets and grinned with disdain. "I should have expected this." His smile dropped in an instant. "Pathetic. You always _were_ the slow one..."

Sherlock tilted his brows, silently conceding with his brother's words. Because he was only just now starting to realise exactly what his brother was doing.

"... the idiot. That's why I've always despised you. You shame us all. You shame the family name. You shame your _wife_! Now, for once in your life, do the right thing." Mycroft tilted his head towards John "Put this stupid little man out of all our misery."

John bit his bottom lip in an attempt to hide his fear.

" _Shoot_ him," Mycroft ordered more firmly this time.

"Stop it," Sherlock said quietly, his head still turned away from his brother, but Mycroft wasn't of a mind to quit now that he was on a roll.

"Look at him. What is he?" Mycroft asked him.

Sherlock couldn't bear to look at his friend's face because of the sad distant look he'd detected on it.

"Nothing more than a distraction; a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You'll find another. Just like you will find another wife now you suddenly seem so thrilled to have one."

"Please, for God's sake, just stop it," Sherlock, still not looking at his brother, implored in a low voice.

"Why?"

Finally, he slowly turned to face his elder brother. "Because, on balance, even your Lady Bracknell was more convincing."

Mycroft blinked and lifted his head, looking just a smidgen disappointed.

Sherlock turned his head towards John without actually looking at him. "Ignore everything he just said. He's being kind," he said, his voice still low. "He's trying to make it easy for me to kill him."

When he finally did raise his eyes, John had already turned his head to look at Mycroft. Yes, Sherlock imagined that Mycroft's sudden discovery of altruism _would_ shock John into stunned silence.

"Which is why this is going to be so much harder," he whispered, feeling sick to his stomach about what he would have to do. In the end... they'd never been very close brothers, but John and he had always – even through the hard times – been close friends.

Mycroft reached up to smooth his hair a bit and gave Sherlock a rueful little smile. "You said you _liked_ my Lady Bracknell."

"Sherlock. Don't..." John managed to whisper, his voice rough with tension.

Mycroft turned at his best friend. "It's not your decision, Doctor Watson."

John stared at him and swallowed hard. Mycroft turned back to Sherlock "Not in the face, though, please. I've promised my brain to the Royal Society."

Sherlock nodded and briefly closed his eyes. "Where would you suggest?"

"Well...," Mycroft said and he reached up to do up the top button of his shirt again. "I suppose there is a heart _somewhere_ inside me." He looked down and straightened his tie a bit. "I don't imagine it's much of a target but..."

Sherlock couldn't keep a small smile from forming on his lips that were otherwise taught with stress.

"... why don't we try for that?"

He couldn't believe it had come down to this. Now that he was on the verge of having to take the life of his own brother... Sherlock realised something. How much he actually cared for him... Loved him, in fact.

Sherlock now keenly felt a sharp stab of regret. They'd never been close because their dispositions never let them. But, how much of that was really his own fault? And now... now they'd never have a chance to find out if they could be... different. More. He was surprised he was able to hold the pistol with a steady hand.

Mycroft lowered his hands and looked directly at him.

Suddenly John stood at his side, holding out a hand towards him. "I won't allow this."

"This is my fault," Mycroft said, giving John a pointed look before he turned his eyes to Sherlock; eyes that were filled with remorse. "Moriarty."

"Moriarty?" Sherlock repeated, not understanding.

"Her Christmas treat... five minutes' conversation with Jim Moriarty five years ago."

"What did they discuss?" Sherlock asked him.

"Five minutes' conversation..."

Sherlock lowered the pistol. He needed no more words to know what his brother was going to say. Five minutes. That's all it had taken her.

Mycroft paused, then shrugged apologetically. "... unsupervised."

John's mouth dropped open and he stumbled back a step. Mycroft looked down ruefully, probably acutely feeling every ounce of his responsibility.

Now Sherlock understood... How wrong he'd been... Getting the actual meeting with Moriarty had never been the hardest part. It had been the easiest. Because it had been so easy for Eurus to play them like puppets.

First the governor, then Mycroft... yes... she'd manipulated him as well, into giving her five minutes with Moriarty. Oh, it would have taken longer of course to plot everything... but it had only taken five minutes to get Moriarty in her grasp and make him do her bidding.

Sherlock sighed softly and it took him every ounce of his willpower to raise the pistol again. Mycroft, the silly bugger, straightened up and looked at him.

"Goodbye, brother mine. No flowers..." he said with a sad smile and he put his hands behind his back. "... by request. And... Talk with Kyrie, sort things out... Give her my love, won't you?"

He had to give it to his brother...Even while looking at the jaws of death, Mycroft showed no trace of cowardice. If he was to go down, he'd do so with style and calm resignation.


	113. Pandora's Box Closed

**A/N We're nearing the end of the episode... actually, we are nearing the end of the entire show and thus nearing the end of my story. Though, as I promised, my story will have a couple of added chapters.**

 **A big shout out to Valerie Chavous for creating a ship for my couple Sherlock and Kyrie. Sherrie! Thank you Valerie! I love it!**

 **Purplestan I know, I'm really putting them – especially Kyrie – through the ringer. TFP, though a big mess, was a great emotional episode so I hope I'm succeeding in bleeding those emotions through in my own little story.**

 **DreamonAlina It's a necessary evil, I assure you. These chapters would not have been nearly as emotional if Sherlock would have been forced to get Molly to say 'I Love You'.**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 First of... no spoilers. You are free to make any assumptions you want of course. Anyway, I love Mycroft to bits, as you well know, so it makes me really happy you liked this chapter and his growth. And I agree, if Sherlock just kept saying things like 'I don't love you', Kyrie would not believe that. Her self-doubt however...**

 **Companion Teresa Wow thank you so much! I have started several original projects over the years. Got quite far with a fantasy project until I just got stumped and it kind of got away from me. Decided to try a rewrite and that too didn't really work out. Seems like, whenever inspiration strikes, I'm stuck with fanfiction. But... who knows? Maybe one day!**

 **EllemichelleP and Artemis7448 and Jane S. Gold Just a little bit longer!**

 **Enjoy this update and please don't forget to review!**

SSS

Sherlock swallowed past the lump in his throat and shifted his finger more firmly onto the trigger of the gun. Images of an overweight Mycroft flashed through his mind... a fun day at the beach. Mycroft stuffing his face with cake. Sherlock excitedly trotting over to him, tackling his elder brother who was trying to read a magazine. The fond smile on ' _Mycruft's_ ' face betraying he was not so annoyed as he tried to seem... What the hell had happened to them?

" _Look after Mycroft? He won't admit it... but he's so alone. And it... breaks my heart..."_ Kyrie's voice whispered to him. This wasn't looking after his brother...

Sherlock took aim.

" _J_ _im Moriarty thought you'd make this choice. He was_ _ **so**_ _excited,"_ Eurus told him quietly, watching him with unadulterated interest.

The lights in the room turned red again and Jim's face appeared on the screen. When he spoke, his voice was softer than before. _"And here we are, at the end of the line. Holmes killing Holmes."_

Mycroft, for the first time, shifted uncomfortably on the spot while Sherlock looked at him with a determined gaze. His eyes narrowed slightly hearing Jim's words.

" _This is where I get off,"_ Jim told them and he smiled.

Sherlock's gaze remained fixed on his brother. They had been played for fools! But no longer. And now? Now Eurus was finally going to get to know her brother. Holmes killing Holmes. Moriarty had known all along, the truth that Eurus with all of her brilliance, had not seen.

"Five minutes," he said through clenched teeth. "It took her just _five minutes_ to do all of this to us."

He turned his eyes towards John. That one look, he knew, alerted John. He returned his gaze to his brother, then raised his eyebrows and shrugged. There was only one solution to this.

Sherlock would never be able to live with himself with the death of either his brother or his friend on his conscience. And he'd never dare to look Kyrie in the eyes again. In just five minutes... his life had been reduced to nothing. Holmes killing Holmes... Just not the Holmes that Eurus had expected.

He pressed his lips together for a moment before lowering the gun and turning away. "Well, not on my watch," he said quietly.

Mycroft looked startled. John turned to face Sherlock and licked his lips nervously.

" _What are you doing?"_ Eurus asked him.

He turned to face her. "A moment ago, a brave man asked to be remembered. I'm remembering the governor. I'm also honouring my wife's dying request... when she thought she was dying... I'm looking after my brother. You wanted to get to know me, Eurus? Well, this is me."

He held the pistol in both hands, lifted the muzzled and pressed the end under his chin. He hoped that in time, when Kyrie knew the truth, she would not hate him but cherish the wonderful moments they'd lived and loved, few though they'd been. In her memory and her heart, he hoped he would live on and that would have to be enough.

"Ten..." he said, calmly, looking ahead at the screen right in front of him.

Eurus frowned. _"No, no, Sherlock."_

"Nine..."

He could feel the shock radiating from his best friend and his brother.

"Eight..."

" _You can't!"_ Eurus cried out.

 _Try me_ , he thought.

"Seven..."

" _You don't know about Redbeard yet."_

She now tried to sway his mind. As if he cared. He lowered his left hand and continued to hold the muzzle under his chin with the other.

"Six..."

" _Sherlock!"_ Her voice was anxious.

"Five..."

" _Sherlock, stop that at once!"_

Now her voice started to sound panicked. A brief whizzing sound and suddenly he felt a sharp twinge in his neck. He jolted and reached his left hand round his neck to feel, while continuing his countdown.

"Four..."

Another whizzing sound and the look of surprise on John's face made Sherlock pull back his hand. He was holding a dart between his fingers.

"Three..." he said, though his voice was a bit quieter. He looked at the dart while still keeping the pistol pressed against his chin.

"Two..." he managed weakly and then it felt as if he was slowly falling backwards. He lost the grip on the pistol and it fell from his hand. His eyes drifted closed as he fell and when he landed it felt like falling into thick black oil. It slowly pulled him under until he no longer existed.

SSS

Sherlock was standing in front of the blue wooden door, the door with the Eurus' name on it.

"Aren't you going to open it?"

He closed his eyes hearing her voice. "No," he said simply.

"Why not?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked to his left. He gave Kyrie a sad smile. "This is Pandora's box and inside is nothing but pain, loss, grief and heartbreak. To open this door, is to release all of that. Now that I'm not certain if you'll still be waiting for me... I'm not sure I can do this."

Kyrie reached up and put her hand to his cheek. Her face seemed alight with a soft glow and her eyes were shining brightly, violet stars sparkling inside of them. "If this really _is_ Pandora's box then don't forget there was something good inside as well."

They locked eyes for a brief moment and then she leaned in. When he dipped his head, she tilted her face so her lips were next to his ear. "Don't forget hope," she whispered.

Then she was gone. The blue door was gone and... he had no idea where he was..

" _Hello?"_

Why did his limbs feel so heavy?

Sherlock jolted awake.

" _Hello? Are you still there?"_

Groaning, Sherlock pushed himself up onto his arms, putting one hand to the side of his head. An earpiece... How did that get in his ear? And... why the hell was he lying on a wooden table?

"Yes. Yeah. No, I'm-I'm still here. I'm here," he assured the little girl a bit weakly as he tried to get his bearings.

" _You went away. You said you'd help me and you went away."_

He turned onto one elbow, his other hand still pressed to his ear. "Yes, I know. Well, I'm sorry about that. We-we-we must have got cut off. Um..."

He looked around the room, then screwed up his eyes and shook his head hard. Damn his mind felt sluggish! It was at least three steps behind on his brain! He struggled to sit up. "How-how-how long was I away?" he asked, still feeling disoriented.

" _Hours. Hours and hours. Why don't grown-ups tell the truth?"_

Hours and hours... A lot could have happened in that space of time. Like fitting him with an earpiece and dressing him in his greatcoat. His hand lowered from his ear. "No, I-I _am_ telling the truth. You can trust me."

" _Where did you go?"_

That was a really good question. Smart kid.

He looked up and saw a large metal grille in the ceiling. He could see the night sky above it. Mostly cloudy but... a superb full moon was clearly visible.

Sherlock slid his legs around to the side of the table. "I'm not completely sure," he admitted, sitting on the edge of the table, looking around at the walls. He slowly got to his feet. Okay, legs cooperating, so far so good.

"Um, now, I tell you what. You-you've got to be really, really brave for me," he told the little girl as he leaned down to pick up a lit lantern from the floor. He blinked his eyes, quickly taking in his surroundings while talking to her. He walked across to one of the walls and held up the lantern.

"Can you go to the front of the plane? Can you do that?"

" _The front?"_

"Yes."

The light from his lantern showed that the walls were lined with many photographs. Most of them of him during various stages of his life. Some photographs were complete, others ripped to show small fragments. Young him, rebellious teenage him, adolescent him, young adult him...

"That's right, the front," he confirmed.

" _You mean where the driver is?"_

Sherlock continued to walk around the room, shining the lantern on the many different photos. "Yes, that's it," he whispered.

" _Okay. I'm going."_

A slightly muffled sound and soft footsteps suggested she was walking around the plane now.

Sherlock's heart constricted in his chest looking at the pictures of his young pirate self and his family.

"Are you there yet?" he asked her.

" _Yeah, I'm here."_

Sherlock's head jerked up hearing a different voice. "John!"

" _Yeah,"_ John's voice said, coming in through the earpiece.

"Where are you?" Sherlock asked his friend.

" _I don't know. I've just woken up. Where are you?"_

"I'm not sure. Another cell. I just spoke to the girl on the plane again. We've been out for hours."

" _What, she's still up there?"_ John sounded shocked.

"Yes. The plane will keep flying until it runs out of fuel. Is Mycroft with you?"

" _I have no idea. I can hardly see anything."_

Sherlock could hear how John called out for Mycroft. No answer. Dammit. Sherlock ran his hand over his face. "Are _you_ okay?"

" _Yeah."_

"All right. Well, just keep exploring. Tell me anything you can about where you are."

He needed info; he needed data... without that Sherlock felt like he was navigating without a compass.

Sherlock continued to walk around the room, looking at the photos. Why were they here? Clues?

" _The walls are..."_ Brief pause. _"... rough. They're rock, I guess."_

"What are you standing on?"

" _Uh, stone, I think. But listen, there's about two feet of water."_

Sherlock raised his head at the words. Water... 'Drowned Redbeard'.

" _Chains. Yeah, my feet are chained up. I can feel something."_

He could faintly hear soft splashing sounds and then... a brief deafening silence.

" _Bones, Sherlock,"_ John said grimly after a long pause.

Sherlock heard him, but was a bit distracted by something he noticed under the table.

" _There are bones in here."_

He knelt down, put the lantern onto the floor and reached towards the round ceramic bowl under the table.

"What kind of bones?" he asked on a whisper, dreading the answer even though he already knew.

" _Uh, I dunno. S-small."_

With a trembling hand, Sherlock lifted up the bowl and held it in his hands. His lips parted in shock when he saw the letters painted on the side of the bowl. ' _Redbeard_ '. He closed his eyes.

" _Who's Redbeard?"_ the girl suddenly asked. Sherlock jolted. Apparently he'd uttered his dog's name aloud. He sank his face into one hand as he replied to her, trying to sound collected. _Soldiers today_. "Oh, hello. Are you at the front of the plane now?"

" _Yeah. I still can't wake the driver up."_

He quickly wiped the corner of his eye were unwanted fluids had managed to pool. "That's all right. What can you see now?"

" _I can see a river."_ Pause. Muffled sounds. Footsteps... _"And there's-there's-there's a big wheel."_

"All right. Well, you and I are going to have to drive this plane together." He slowly raised himself up, keeping his eyes up towards the sky. "Just you and me."

" _We are?_ " she asked, sounding utterly terrified... and hopeful.

Sherlock managed to procure a wobbly smile in an attempt to sound confident. "Yeah, there's nothing to it. We just need to get in touch with some people on the ground."

He bent down to pick up the lantern again. "Now, um, can you see anything that looks like a radio?" Sure, as if that little girl would know how a high tech communication device on a big plane would look like... Brilliant Sherlock!

Another brief pause.

" _No."_

See?

"That's all right. Well, we... keep looking. We've got plenty of time."

Suddenly the girl screamed.

"What's wrong?" he asked in alarm.

" _The whole plane's shaking,"_ she said, nearly sobbing.

Sherlock grimaced but kept his voice soothing. He was walking around the room as he talked.

"It's just turbulence. It's nothing to worry about."

" _My ears hurt."_

"I know, it's just the pressure. Try blowing a raspberry on the back of your hand. Does the river look like it's getting closer?"

" _A-a little bit."_

"All right, then. That means you're nearly home."

He put his hand to his head.

" _Sherlock? I'm in a well. That's where I am. I'm in the bottom of a well."_

Sherlock turned, frowning. He just realised something as his mind finally caught up with his brain. "Why would there be a well in Sherrinford? With Redbeard's bones inside?"

He raised the lantern and looked more closely at the array of photographs on the wall in front of him. There were photographs he hadn't seen in a long time... Of young pirate him and... a teenage Mycroft who, by then, had lost an admirable amount of weight. But that was not what caught his attention... Over a small gap between two wall panels, there suddenly was a picture of a man and a woman he didn't know, though it was easy to deduce their identity. After all, their daughter had inherited her father's slightly cleft chin and the colour of his eyes, though the shape was her mother's and also the colour of her golden hair.

They were smiling brightly into the camera. She was standing against his chest, one hand curled up against his cheek, her other over his hand that was resting on her stomach while the fingers of his other hand were curled around her arm. The epitome of marital bliss was staring back at him from a photograph and his heart clenched when, for the first time, he realised the warmth and love Kyrie had to be missing so very dearly.

The realisation that he'd never get to meet her parents filled him with a melancholy sadness. He'd never get the chance to introduce himself to the two people responsible for putting the one person into this world that had brought him so much happiness. He would never know if... if they'd have approved of him as a suitable husband for their daughter.

He closed his eyes... He'd never asked Kyrie about her parents. Not one time. He lowered his head in shame and his eyes were instantly drawn to the bottom of the wall. The gap... There was a gap between to wall panels... and a gap between the wall and the floor.

"Walls don't contract after you've painted them." He lifted his head. "Not real ones," he whispered, his voice soft and intense.

He slowly bent to put the lantern onto the floor. He then straightened himself, ripped the photograph from the wall, then raised both hands to slam them hard against it. The entire wall fell outwards and dropped to the ground outside. In front of him he saw a very familiar burnt-out house. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He was home!


	114. Pandora's Box Opened

**A/N This is a big thank you for all of you who read this story and take the time to let me know you enjoy it. It's sad, this culture of instant gratification. It's so easy to just read and then move on. Why bother to put energy in a review, right? If only all readers would realise how much time, energy and dedication is poured into a project like this. Reviews... a connection with our readers, that is our only payment and reward and such a small thing to do to let the author know you appreciate the work.**

 **We are nearing the end of the show and, like I promised, there will be a few more chapters to wrap things up. It's my own ball game now. I'm glad I was able to finish all of the seasons, there really were times I just wanted to quit because of all the time and energy it swallowed up. Nice reviews and private messages to cheer me on was all that kept me going sometimes.**

 **So please, readers, if you ever come across a story that you love to read, do the author a favour and let them know! It sometimes takes hours to craft a new chapter and MONTHS if not YEARS to write an entire story. Chapters that you'll probably read in just a few minutes. And leaving a review takes even less time because you don't even need an account.**

 **It's people like you, my lovely readers/reviewers that make an author want to continue writing! It happens all too often that an author, demotivated by a lack of reviews, decides to abandon a wonderful story!**

 **Okay, done rambling, on with the reviews!**

 **Jane S. Gold I hope you will love this chapter as much as the previous one. So close to the end now!**

 **Thewickedprinces Thank you, as always, for your lovely compliments! It's been quite a ride hasn't it? I loved every moment of it, though I had times I felt really tired and a bit demotivated because of lack of reviews. It's thrilling to know you like Kyrie so much that you actually look for her in the show!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Sherlock's and Mycroft's relationship is about to change in my story. You know how much I love Mycroft and I adore my version of him! Can you believe we are nearing the end of the show? I'm having a blast with my big ass epilogue right now. Still not sure how many chapters that will be but there are a few things I want to address before the story ends.**

 **Artemis7448 Here's more :-)**

 **EllemichelleP I'd never do that! How can you even suggest such a thing! I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

 **DreamonAlina Thank YOU for sticking with my story and always taking the time to leave me a review! You have no idea how gratifying it is to read comments like that. To know how much people are rooting for my invented character to the point she's missed in the actual show.**

 **IronLace To be honest, I do want this story to end! And I'm really trying hard to not rush the ending and be done with it. It's absorbed about half a year of my life about now and I'm eager to start with other things again. For now, I'm still enjoying writing the post-show chapters and I hope you will enjoy reading them!**

 **So, this is one of the final chapters of TFP. The next couple of chapters will be partly the end of TFP and partly the start of my 'ending' sequence. For now, enjoy this update!**

SSS

"I'm home. Musgrave Hall," he whispered while gently sliding the photograph of Kyrie's parents into his pocket.

" _Me and Jim Moriarty, we got on like a house on fire..."_ Eurus quipped in his ear.

Sherlock bent down to pick up the lantern again and walked out of the 'room'. Behind him the three other walls fell out as well and crashed to the ground.

" _... which reminded me of home,"_ she continued.

Sherlock walked towards the house. "Yeah, it's just an old building. I don't care. The plane; tell me about the plane _NOW!"_

" _Sweet Jim. After our little chat, he was no longer very interested in being alive, especially if he could make more trouble being dead."_

"Yeah, still not interested. The _plane_!"

" _You knew he'd take his revenge. His revenge apparently is me. That's what I made him believe anyway. Did you like that one photograph I put up? Kyrie's parents, they look lovely don't they?"_

Sherlock reached the front door, opened it and went inside. "Eurus, let me speak to the little girl on the plane and I'll play any game you like."

" _Oh Sherlock. You still look without really seeing. You don't observe! Very well, first find Redbeard."_

Beside the stairs in the hallway, there was a large screen standingon top of a bureau or low cupboard... He couldn't quite tell as it was covered with a sheet.

At first the screen showed the, by now, familiar image of water pouring down, until it got replaced by Eurus' face looking into the camera. The area behind her was dark.

" _I'm letting the water in now. You don't want me to drown another one of your pets, do you? At long last, Sherlock Holmes, it's time to solve the Musgrave ritual."_

Water in? What did she mean by that? 'Letting the water in'? He stumbled back from the screen.

" _Your very first case! And the final problem."_ Her voice suddenly dropped to a whisper. _"Oh. Bye-bye."_

" _Sherlock?"_ John's voice came in through the earpiece. He sounded a bit panicky but Sherlock was distracted by Eurus' voice. She was singing again. _"I that am lost. Oh, who will find me. Deep down below..."_

" _Sherlock!"_ John sounded a bit more frantic.

" _... The old beech tree?"_

Sherlock furrowed his brows. Why did he hear John's voice coming from the room at the end of the hallway, as well as over the earpiece? He slowly walked across he hall and opened the door to the room.

" _Help succour me now..."_

He stepped inside and his lips parted in shock. "John," he gasped.

" _The East winds blow..."_

Sherlock put the lantern on the floor and hurried across the room and stared in shock at the screen on the wall.

"John."

No answer. Sherlock raised his voice. _"_ John? Can you hear me? John!" He had started to yell.

" _Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go..."_

Suddenly the little girl screamed in his ear. Sherlock flinched at the sound, but also at the fact that – for a brief moment – he'd forgotten all about her!

" _Help me! Help me, please!"_

" _Sherlock!"_ John called for him at the same time.

He had his hand to his earpiece to listen to the girl, but lowered it again, staring intensely at the screen. He saw John, standing to his waist in water in a deep well... and water was falling down.

" _Be not afraid..."_

"John."

His ears were filling with the sound of the pouring water. _"Yeah, it's flooding,"_ John said, raising his voice to make himself heard. _"The well is flooding."_

"Try as long as possible not to drown,"Sherlock urged him, gesturing with his hands even though there was no way John could actually see him. He saw John putting his finger to his earpiece. _"What?"_ his friend asked him.

Again, Sherlock gestured pointlessly while looking at the screen. "I'm going to find you. I _am_ finding you!"

" _Well, hurry up, please, because I don't have long! And you need me to smooth things over with Kyrie!"_

The girl on the plane screamed again for some reason and Sherlock found it hard to focus between her and his friend as his mind was still reeling with everything else that had happened. Exhaustion was already starting to set in but he determinedly pushed it aside.

" _It's leaning over, the whole plane!"_

Sherlock glanced behind him to the door, then turned towards the screen again. John. Little girl. John. Little girl... Kyrie... He couldn't do this. He clasped his hand over his mouth. Was it possible to save them both? Or was one of them going to die? And if so... who? Who was he willing to sacrifice?

He watched as John tried to get a grip on the rocks lining the well, in a futile attempt to hold himself above the rising water. Soon either John lost his grip, or the chain pulled him back... either way, he suddenly fell backwards into the water with a loud cry.

Sherlock turned and ran out into the hall as his younger sister continued to sing.

"Eurus, you said the answer's in the song..."

He turned to the screen in the hall. The singing stopped.

"... but I went through the song line by line all those years ago..."

The blue door creaked open, just a bit, filling his mind with memories he long thought forgotten. Of him, searching in the meadow. And all the feelings of... failing and falling short because he couldn't solve the song.

"... and I found nothing. I couldn't find _anything_. And there-there was a beech tree in the grounds and I dug."

He remembered that... determinedly walking across the meadow, carrying a spade.

"I dug and dug and dug and dug. Sixteen feet by six, sixteen yards, sixteen metres – and I found _nothing. No one._ "

" _Sherlock?"_ John's voice came in over the earpiece, his voice soft and... grim.

" _It was a clever little puzzle, wasn't it? So, why couldn't you work it out, Sherlock?"_ Eurus asked.

He raised both hands to cover his mouth. Be brave... open the door. Don't forget hope... The door creaked open a bit wider.

" _Sherlock? There's something you need to know."_

Sherlock lowered his hands, breathing heavily.

" _Emotional context. And he-e-e-e-re it comes,"_ Eurus said, sounding excited.

" _Sherlock? The bones I found..."_

Sherlock turned and walked back into the nearby room to look at the other screen. "Yes? They're dogs' bones. That's Redbeard."

The blue door opened wider still and a bright light started flooding from the gap.

" _Mycroft's been lying to you. To all three of us."_

He frowned in confusion.

" _They're not dogs' bones."_

" _Remember Daddy's allergy? What **was** he allergic to? What would he never let you have all those times you begged? Well, he'd **never** let you have a dog."_

Inside his mind he could hear a dog bark. Redbeard. He screwed his eyes shut and saw an image of his younger self running through the shallows on the beach. _"Come on, Redbeard!"_

He saw little Eurus running around, a happy smile on her face. In one hand she held a plastic toy aeroplane and held it up as she 'flew' it through the air as she went.

" _What a funny little memory, Sherlock,"_ his sister said.

Little Eurus ran away and... there he was... Redbeard... his dog, the Irish setter sitting on the pebbles, a purple bandana tied around his neck. Some distance away, his younger self, wearing a yellow jumper, raised his plastic sword and swooped it downwards as he smiled towards his... dog.

" _You were upset..."_

He could still see little Eurus, running around behind Redbeard.

" _... so you told yourself a better story."_

She was still clutching her toy, trotting around in a circle.

" _... but we never had a dog."_

The blue door slammed open and light and lost memories came flooding out.

As Eurus trotted away, the Irish setter was no longer there. In its place there was a- a young boy, kneeling on the beach. He was the same age as young Sherlock, had red hair and was wearing a thick checked shirt... and a purple bandana tied around his neck.

He was wearing a black plastic eyepatch over one eye. He stood up, wielding his own plastic sword as his younger self turned to look and smiled at him. Nearby, a young Mycroft was trying to skim pebbles on the stepping stones some distance away.

The red-headed boy ran towards Sherlock, who turned and trotted away across the beach with his friend following him. Little Eurus turned to watch them go.

"Victor," he whispered.

" _Now it's coming."_

Sherlock's voice started to shake and part of him was already regretting opening the blue door. "Victor Trevor."

He frowned as the memories kept flooding his mind. He was on the beach with Victor; trotting away together, leaving behind Eurus on her own.

"We played pirates. I was Yellowbeard and he was..."

Sherlock's voice broke and tears pooled in his eyes. He raised them to look at his sister who was watching him intently, her mouth slightly open and an expectant look on her face.

"... he was Redbeard."

" _You were inseparable. But I wanted to play too."_

Sherlock looked away when it finally dawned on him exactly what had started his sister's behaviour. He sighed in despair and lowered his head, closing his eyes.

"Oh. Oh God," he cried softy. "What..."

The lump in his throat prevented him to speak. He pulled in several steadying breaths before he was able to continue. "... what did you do?"

In response, Eurus merely started to sing again, softly and slower than usual. _"I that am lost. Oh, who will find me, deep down below the old beech tree?"_

Sherlock couldn't prevent his mind from conjuring up a horrible vision. The vision of little Victor, his best friend in the world, sopping wet and almost up to his waist in water, standing at the bottom of the well. His little toy sword floating beside him as he stared up and cried out in desperation. _"_ _ **Please**_ _let me out! Please, someone help me!_ _ **Please**_ _."_

Sherlock put a hand to his mouth as he gazed down, lost in grief and old, painful memories.

He remembered how he had tried to do his bit as searched parties scoured the Musgrave estate and the grounds surrounding it. Day after day, he had wandered across the meadow, disconsolate at the loss of his friend. _"Come on, Redbeard!"_ he would call out, in hopes his friend would suddenly jump from a tree and laugh in his face for being so worried.

He searched and searched but he didn't find his friend. No one ever did. After Eurus had started referring to Victor as 'Drowned Redbeard', the attention had focussed on all bodies of water on and near the estate. Duckponds, lakes, small babbling brooks... But Victor was never found.

He remembered standing in the hall, feeling lost, alone, scared and very sad. _"Victor,"_ his younger self whispered, but it was his adult self who uttered the sound.

" _Deep waters, Sherlock, all your life,"_ Eurus said. _"In all your dreams."_

For a brief moment he was back near the soft rippling water in the swimming pool where he and Moriarty had their stand-off. And then he was lying on the rocky ledge, as 'Holmes' while the Reichenbach Falls thundered downwards behind him.

" _Deep waters,"_ Eurus repeated.

Sherlock stared ahead of himself, his face tingling and wet with tears, snot running from his nose. "You killed him," he choked.

He swallowed and lifted his head, looking towards the screen. "You killed my best friend."

" _I never_ _ **had**_ _a best friend. I had_ _ **no one**_ _. I only had you but you never had time for me!"_ Eurus said quietly, but with a hint of anger in her voice.

Sherlock raised his head towards the ceiling. He found himself transported to that beach, so long ago and watched the scene unfold through adult eyes. He watched his sister, running around the beach, flying her toy aeroplane beside her.

Smiling, she ran around him with her plane, then looked up at him. _"Play with me, Sherlock! Play with me!"_ she said while running around him.

" _No one,"_ Eurus repeated, bitterly.

He lowered his head, still keeping his eyes closed.

" _Don't forget hope,"_ Kyrie whispered in his ear. _"Remember."_

His younger self ran across the graveyard towards the house and his memory got stuck on one of the gravestones... the gravestone of Nemo Holmes and its impossible dates.

" _No one,"_ Eurus whispered.

NEMO  
 _n._ [nee-moh]  
Latin – no one, nobody

Oh!

Determination coursed through him and strengthened his resolve. Even when she was not with him, he still found strength in her.

"Fine... You want to play? Let's play!"

He turned and picked up the lantern from the floor and he ran outside, hurrying around the side of the house with his coat billowing around him, through an open wrought-iron gate and into the graveyard at the back of the house. As he ran around, bending down and shining his light closely onto various gravestones, the little girl's voice suddenly came in over his earpiece again.

" _Hello? Are you there?"_

"Need your help. I'm trying to solve a puzzle," Sherlock told her.

" _But what about the plane?"_

"Well, the puzzle will save the plane." Or so he hoped.

He ran to another gravestone and looked at the inscription.

 **1818**

 **Aged 24 and 26 Years**

"The wrong dates. She _used_ the wrong dates on the gravestones as the key to the cipher..." He ran to shine the lantern on Nemo Holmes' gravestone. "... and the cipher was the song."

" _Is this_ _ **strictly**_ _relevant?"_ John asked him, shouting to make himself heard over the water flooding the well.

"Yes, it is. I'll be with you in a minute."

" _I'm not sure I have a minute!"_

"Just hang on!"

He put the lantern on the ground and focussed on another, very old and worn gravestone.

 **134 – 1719**

The numbers '134' and '1719' appeared in front of his eyes. He looked across to other gravestones, mentally pulling the numbers from each of them, including those from Nemo Holmes' grave, and he put them beside the first set until he had a long string of numbers in front of him.

Rubbing his hands over his nose and mouth, he lowered them and breathed in sharply.

" _The lights are getting closer,"_ the girl said insistingly.

He gestured dismissively to one side. "Hush, now. Working."

He mentally put the words of Eurus' song in front of him. Two verses, side by side.

"Let's number the words of the song."

The row of numbers whooshed away and individual numbers appeared above each word in the four verses. He screwed his eyes shut. The words and their accompanying numbers started to roll round in his mind.

"Then rearrange the numbered words to match the sequence on the gravestones."

The words and numbers started to spin around in front of him, some of them stopping briefly in front of his eyes before spinning on. The sequences that stop read:

1 3 4

I am lost

17 19

Help me

28

brother.

Sherlock's head snapped up and he opened his eyes with a gasp.

He looked at the verses and the numbered words in front of him. The majority of the letters and their accompanying numbers shattered, their fragments falling away to the ground, leaving him behind with the remaining words floating in the air.

He breathed heavily as he looked at them, then reached out and started swiping each word out of the air in the correct order, saying each word as he removed it.

"I... am... lost... Help... me... brother... Save... My... Life... Before... my... Doom."

He continued swiping the words away.

"I... am... Lost... Without... your... love... Save... My... soul... seek... my... room."

He stopped dead on the last word, staring up at the last three phrases that floated in front of him, the most prominent being the final three words, 'Seek my room'. He looked past them towards the house.

And then it hit him. The meaning of the song. A cry for attention made by his younger sister. The only response she'd ever gotten to her cry of loneliness, was being taken away from her family and then treated like a lab animal. All of this time, all she ever wanted was for him to find her and spend some time with her.

His eyes widened. "Oh God," he whispered. She was still waiting for him! He grabbed the lantern and raced back towards the house.

The girl screamed in his ear again. _"We're going to crash! I'm going to die!"_

John grunted something intelligible in his ear but it sounded like he was struggling.

Sherlock reached the gateway beside the house, ran through and then round the side to the front. He burstthrough the front door, then ran up the stairs.

"I think it's time you told me your real name," Sherlock said to the little girl.

" _I'm not allowed to tell my name to strangers."_

How had he not heard it before? Her voice... Then again, Mycroft had warned him about her ability to manipulate.

He reached a closed door on the landing and stopped in front of it. Eurus bedroom.

"But I'm not a stranger, am I?" he told her quietly. He carefully opened the door and stepped inside. "I'm your brother."

He lowered the lantern to the floor and held out his other hand towards his sister.

"I'm here, Eurus," he said in the most reassuring way he could muster.

She was still wearing the same clothes he'd seen her in before. His sister was sitting on the floor, her knees drawn up and her hands wrapped tightly around them. She had her eyes closed.

"You're playing with me, Sherlock. We're playing the game," she said to him in the little girl's voice, a careful smile on her lips.

"The game, yes. I get it now." He stepped closer to her. "The song was never a set of directions. I'm sorry I got it so wrong."

"I'm in the plane, and I'm going to crash," she said frightened, her eyes tightly shut. Sherlock crouched down in front of her.

"And you're going to save me."

"Look how brilliant you are," Sherlock told her, his voice edged with pain and sorrow. "Your mind has created the perfect metaphor. You're high above us, all alone in the sky, and you understand everything except how to land."

He shifted round and sat down in front of her, breathless and anxious. He wanted to help his sister, but he was also painfully aware his best friend was about to drown. "Now, I'm just an idiot, but I'm on the ground."

Sherlock reached out and put his fingers onto her hands. "I can bring you home."

Eurus shook her head and kept her eyes closed. "No," she said decisively, her voice reverting to its adult tone. "No, no." She shivered. "It's too late now."

Sherlock shifted closer to her and lowered his hand. "No, it's not. It's not too late."

She cried. Her eyes were screwed tight and her face was twisted with fear. "Every time I close my eyes, I'm on the plane. I'm lost, lost in the sky and... no one can hear me."

Eurus pulled her knees closer to herself and cried silently. Sherlock reached out and gently put his hand onto hers again.

"Open your eyes," he whispered to her. "I'm here."

He held his breath when she slowly raised her head and carefully blinked her eyes open to meet his.

"You're not lost any more." He shifted even closer and reached out to embraced her. Eurus hesitantly shuffled forward and then wrapped her arms around him. They hugged each other tightly as she cried against his shoulder.


	115. Moonlight Sonata

**A/N I probably shouldn't do this, but I've been working towards this chapter ever since I started writing this story. Now that we're so close... I just want to upload it already! It's not entirely the end of TFP, there are still some scenes left over that will make an appearance, but yeah, for the rest this is the show over and done with! Now I'm only something like 20 pages ahead of you guys so I will try to get a few more pages done!**

 **Readers and lurkers, please, if you liked the story... Let me know and tell me how you think I did. It would mean the world to me!**

SSS

Tears flowed from his eyes as he wept for his sister's broken and destroyed life. She'd only been child and, whatever her mental problems might have been, as a family they could have found away. Instead, any chance she might have had for any semblance of a normal life, had been robbed when she'd been cruelly put away where no one bothered to teach her the difference between right and wrong and to discern all those confusing but wonderful emotions.

He gently stroked her hair. "Now, you... you just... you just went the wrong way last time, that's all," he whispered in a voice that was thick with tears. _"_ This time, get it right _._ Tell me how to save my friend," he implored her softly still, but a bit more urgent.

In his ear, he could hear John groan with the effort of trying to keep his head above the water and he had no idea how much time he had left.

"Eurus..." He cradled her face with one hand while giving her a pleading look. "Help me save John Watson."

She stared at him, trembling and tearful as he gently stroked her hair. She gazed at him as if she was committing every angle of his face as it was now, to memory.

For Sherlock, Eurus seemed to make a last ditch effort to remain lucid long enough to give him the information he needed. After that, she retreated deep into herself and stopped talking all together.

Sherlock found her little 'control room' that she had, ironically, set up in Mycroft's old bed room. There was a screen that showed the settings of the conference call that she, John and Sherlock had participated in. Another screen showed master controls of the water control. From what he could see on the various camera footages, Eurus had arranged a water truck near the well from which water was being pumped into it.

Sherlock was at least able to deactivate the pump system, now he just needed to find the well and get John out.

Near the screens Sherlock also found three phones. Mycroft's, John's and his. He grabbed his and made a call to the local police. After the lives his sister had taken and the discovery of human remains in the well, he had no choice but to walk through the appropriate official channels. He was confident that Mycroft, once he was found at least, could handle and oversee the rest.

There was a lot of mumbling and stuttering on the other end of the line and Sherlock had to try hard not to roll his eyes and make rude remarks. It wasn't their fault that the nastiest transgressions they had experience with, was stopping fights outside pubs and tracking down small time criminals like petty thieves and carjackers.

"Just call in the Yard and ask for Lestrade," he suggested curtly.

After that it took some time and patience before the cavalry arrived.

With the help of Eurus' directions, Sherlock guided a small rescue team of three towards the well. He sighed in dismay when they finally discovered it... An old abandoned well – not even on the estate itself – obscured from view by foliage and trees.

They had never even known that well was there. Had Eurus discovered it when she was out, playing all by herself? How had she even found it? There were no visible clues that could make one even suspect about a nearby abandoned well. Like... pipes sticking out of the ground, or-or a small building that might have been a well house. There were no obvious depressions in the ground or an out-of-use windmill that might indicate the existence of the well. He could also not detect any concrete vaults or pits, not that he could immediately see anyway. Maybe they'd been covered by lumber or perhaps metal plates?

No wonder that Victor had never been found. The search parties had been looking in all the wrong directions, especially when they had started searching for possible bodies of water in which Victor could have drowned.

Sherlock watched as a rope was thrown down the well so John could use it for support, until someone climbed down with a pair of industrial bolt cutters to cut through the chains and help secure the rope around his waist before the other two pulled him out.

Now that it was all over, Sherlock could feel fatigue settle in his body. Before long, the entire estate was buzzing with activity. A frightened and tearful looking Eurus was being led away from the house by two police officers and also Victor's remains were being salvaged.

Police cars and vans were parked all around and a helicopter's rotors could be heard nearby. Some distance away, Sherlock watched his sister go. It felt like a part of him was being led away.

John was beside him, wrapped in a grey blanket, shivering slightly. His wet hair stuck up in all directions. Behind them, Greg Lestrade walked over to them.

"I just spoke to your brother," Greg told him.

Sherlock and John turned to face him. "How is he?" Sherlock asked anxiously.

"He's a bit shaken up, that's all. She didn't hurt him. She just locked him in her old cell."

"What goes around comes around," John muttered.

"Yeah. Give me a moment, boys," he said, then started to walked past him.

When Sherlock addressed him quietly, he turned back. "Oh, um. Mycroft... make sure he's looked after. He's not as strong as he thinks he is. And um, make sure he gets his phone back?"

Greg nodded at him. "Yeah, I'll take care of it."

"Thanks, Greg," Sherlock softly replied.

Sherlock tried to ignore the surprised looks on their faces. Yes, yes... hilarious. It took him years to finally get the name right. A name, he was absolutely sure, he'd never forget again.

Greg walked away and Sherlock watched as Eurus was loaded into a reinforced cell inside one of the police vans. She sat down on a side bench as a police officer closed the door.

"You okay?" John asked him.

"Define 'okay'."

"Just... are you?"

"No. Far from it," Sherlock admitted. "My flat was blown up, partially anyway. I got kidnapped by my own sister. I saw... five people getting killed right in front of me. I found out my sister killed my best friend, though – I guess – she was too young then to fully realise what she was doing. Oh, and to top it all off... I was forced to tell Kyrie I want a divorce and had to make it look real. So, I told her I don't love her and hurt her where I knew I could inflict the most pain. What do you think, John? Do I still have a wife waiting for me?"

John nodded his head. "Yeah. 'Course you do. Besides, even _if_ she gets idiotic ideas in her head like leaving you or something... there's always Mary and me. And I doubt Mycroft, or even your parents for that matter, will allow her to just walk away without at least trying to mend things between you two. And then there's Greg, Mrs Hudson... Molly... Maybe not Molly, but... you know, a lot of people are rooting for you, Sherlock. God knows you've been a miserable old sod for long enough now."

Sherlock managed the beginnings of a small grin. It soon faded though. "I said I'd bring her home. I can't, can I?"

"Well, you gave her what she was looking for... context."

Sherlock looked round at him. "Is that good?"

"It's not good, it's not bad. It's..."

He looked away and screwed up his face, searching for the right words, then turned back to his friend. "It is what it is."

"It's not what it could be either," Sherlock said quietly.

"Mm?" John clearly didn't understand his meaning.

"Something better," he clarified. "This can no longer be _just_ what it is. Out of all of this tragedy... it has to become something better. I just, I don't know how yet."

John clapped his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Let's just go home. You guys are still welcome to stay over at our place."

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you, that's... very kind. I think I first need to have a talk with Kyrie though. See... where we stand and if – you know – there's still..."

" _Don't forget hope."_

"... hope."

"Then get the hell on with it and bring her back, okay?"

SSS

A few hours later, it was the dead of night, Sherlock made his way up the stairs to his flat. It would be the first time he'd set foot inside of it after the explosion. He hoped to find Kyrie inside as well, as he'd requested by text.

\- Meet me at Baker Street. Please  
S.

His heart was hammering in his chest when he pushed open the door. He could hear his feet crunching the remnants of whatever it was that was strewn over the floor... burnt books and papers most likely. The place was a mess and it would take a lot of work to restore it.

But that was not what was first and foremost on his mind. The moment he'd pushed open the door, his eyes had instantly scanned the demolished living room for the presence of the one person he needed to see. He spotted her standing near the left most window, the window he'd jumped through, shielding her against him as they plunged down to escape the explosion.

She didn't respond when he entered the living room, but he was certain she'd heard him, judging by the rigid set of her shoulders.

"Kyrie," he began, his voice rough as he let the words tumble from his lips in quick succession, "I know I-I don't deserve to ask you for another chance, but, please... hear me out. I thought your life was in danger."

No answer.

Was that a good sign or a bad sign? Should he continue or... shut up?

He blinked a few moments then pressed on. "Eurus, my sister... It's a long story really but, the thing is, she lured you to that flat today..."

Now Kyrie's head lifted and she made movements to turn around. He had to stop her from doing that, now! He was not prepared yet to meet her eyes, not before he'd said what he wanted to say. He reached out a hand in a gesture to make her stop and cried out, "No! Stop! Just... hear me out."

She stopped moving and Sherlock dropped his hand. "Eurus was the one who gave you the address because... because she had rigged the flat to explode. She was to blow the place up, with you in it, unless I could convince you that-that I wanted to divorce."

"Sherlock..." her voice called to him softly.

"No, please... Just let me explain."

"But..."

"Kyrie!" he said, sounding exasperated. "I'm trying to tell you that I love you and that I don't want to spend a single day of my life without you! Can you just _shut up_ for a moment and let me?"

She chuckled a bit and he couldn't help but feel a bit emboldened by the sound. "Good... Now, where was I? Ah, yes... Look, I know how difficult I am to be around, but you've always known that and you've always accepted me, the good and the bad. Though admittedly, there... there was a lot of bad."

"Sherlock..."

"Dammit, Kyrie! Just..." He raked his fingers through his hair, he'd already lost track of all the things he wanted to tell her. There was just so much and he was afraid he didn't have nearly enough time to tell her all.

"Until very recently I never appreciated you as much as I should have and I only told you that I love you once, when I should have told you every single day. From the..." Bloody hell, he was crying and his voice was trembling. He blamed it on everything that had happened today that he was now reduced to an emotional and quivering mess.

"... I think I've loved you from that second morning. I'm not sure. I don't know. I've loved you for a long time now, I know that, but I was too proud and stubborn to admit it."

He could tell she was listening intently to him and, even though he didn't want to, it inspired hope to take root inside of him.

"I realise I have nothing to offer you. Nothing appealing anyway. I'm-I'm rude, impatient, ill-tempered, ignorant, all-around impossible to live with... a-a junkie who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high and... even then I... sometimes get high anyway. But I need you. I need you in my life and-and all I have to offer you is me, all of me. I know I've used up all of my chances, but please..."

"Sherlock, can I please say something? I'd _really_ like to say something before you continue on and we'll still be standing here come morning."

He snapped his jaw together in surprise hearing the teasing tone in her voice. She carefully turned around, her hands held out, as if she wasn't sure he wouldn't stop her again.

Suddenly they stood face to face and Sherlock had to keep himself from jumping her and crushing her into his arms. He didn't. She was bathing in the moonbeams, her face alight, and she looked... too ethereal to be touched.

"I'm not angry, Sherlock, if that's what you thought. I'm not upset either."

He blinked, unsure if he heard her correctly. "You're-you're not..."

"Upset? No. Was I shocked when I heard you say those words? Yes. I-I broke the connection and for that I'm sorry but... I really couldn't listen to you any more, even though I knew you were lying through your teeth."

"Wait, what? No. No, no. I upset you, you were upset. I saw you! You threw up and you only do that when you are upset."

Kyrie started laughing. "Oh, my God! You bloody idiot! I could hear the tension in your voice. After everything you've done when I was recovering... You _really_ think I would believe something like that so easily? And no, I wasn't _that_ upset. I knew something was wrong, but... those things you said?"

She gulped and slightly looked away from him, her smile fading. "That _did_ hurt, Sherlock. A lot."

"I know," he whispered with remorse. "I had to. You weren't accepting anything I was saying and I thought you were going to die. I had to hurt you where I knew it would cause you the most pain. In the end, I chose for you to live, even if that meant losing your love. I was... kind of banking on Shakespeare being right about nothing being lost, that may be found, if sought."

Kyrie gave him a wobbly smile. "Smart man, Shakespeare."

"So, you're... you're not leaving me then?"

"No! I love you, you moron!"

His mind raced full speed ahead. He was an idiot... but his sister was a certified genius. She would have known that Kyrie would never have just believed him like that. So, what had been the point? If she'd even had one.

He thought back to the little interactions he'd had with his sister.

" _I played it. When I visited her. People are so breakable. One tiny bullet and she's out like a light. She seemed to like it when I played for her though. She likes the song."_

" _Why wouldn't I be curious about the woman who was dumb enough to willingly step in front of a bullet to save you?"_

" _You are not observing. You can't see it, can you? You try and try but you just can't see. You can't look."_

" _Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time and it clouds your vision. Because you failed to see. To really see. You failed"_

He thought back to the soft glow on Kyrie's face when she was with him in his Mind Palace. He thought back to the picture of her parents. Her mother, standing against her father's chest, one hand curled up against his cheek her other over his hand that was resting on her stomach... The soft glow on her face... The same glow he'd spotted on Kyrie's face when she turned around to face him, bathing in the moonlight...

His head snapped up. Kyrie had thrown up, but she hadn't been upset... Oh God! He gasped and with one long stride he was with her.

She'd known.. somehow at some time his sister had figured it out. It had not been her intention for Kyrie to be here when Eurus sent in the drone with the grenade. And the flat... Kyrie had never been in danger.

"Oh," he managed to croak. His eyes drifted down her body. He licked his lips as he tentatively reached out a hand. Was it true? Could it be?

Sherlock swallowed hard when he gently brushed his fingers against the flat of her stomach. "Good..." he whispered, his voice sounding odd to his own ears. "Because... because... even though I think I'd make an even lousier dad than I am a husband... I think that it's in the best interest of this little one... to-to have both parents around. At least, I do believe that's the social widely accepted view."

She gasped and Sherlock slowly raised his head, eyes swimming with tears, lips curved up in a crooked grin.

"What?" she stammered confused.

He chuckled elatedly and he felt his fingers tremble against her. His chuckle then turned into a deep rumbling laugh. "Kyrie," he managed to say. "I think you should do a pregnancy test."

Her lips parted in shock and she started to sway on her feet. His arms instantly wrapped around her to steady her.

"Really, Sherlock? Again?" she complained.

He said nothing. He was... too overcome by emotions he'd never experienced before and he had a hard time keeping track of all of them. He simply buried his face in her neck, breathed in her scent and held her close against him.

"Are you sure?"

"No," he whispered. "But I'm fairly positive. No birth control pills when you where in the hospital and recovering, remember? Not sure when you started taking them again but... we were rather 'enthusiastic' those first few days."

She chuckled against his chest and the sound warmed his heart.

"Sherlock?" she suddenly whispered, sounding a bit uncertain. "If I really am... pregnant... How...? I mean, do you even want to...?"

"Yes," he whispered hoarsely. There was a lot more he wanted to say. Like how happy he felt that she was, hopefully, having his baby. How he couldn't wait to see her belly growing with his child. Their child. How much he loved her and how lucky he was to be allowed to have and to hold her. But 'yes' was all he could manage.

When he could feel her tears wet his skin through his shirt, he realised she was crying. He held her closer but didn't say a thing, because he wasn't far off himself.

At some point one of them had turned their face or maybe they both had... but suddenly they were kissing each other. Standing here, holding her in his arms, the possibility of Kyrie being pregnant and the knowledge she wasn't going anywhere... a part of him threatened to shatter while another part used her presence to pull himself up, using her as support to climb out of the pit of despair that had been Sherrinford.

She'd want to know what had happened of course and he would tell her. But not now. Now, he simply wanted to enjoy this moment and just _be_.

He could taste the saltiness of her tears as he kissed her and – after everything that had happened, his emotions already all over the place – he was fairly sure his own tears were mingling with hers.

Sherlock knew one thing for sure... no more maniacs, no more serial-killers, no more psychopaths and no more catering to the high and mighty. Things were going to change. He'd discuss this with John of course, but he had a feeling that John would be right with him on this one.

221B Baker Street... It would become a haven. As Kyrie was for him. It would be a last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted. The final court of appeal for everyone, once the old place was up and running again of course... And more importantly, it would be the home he'd make for his wife and child. Maybe even children.

Kyrie pulled back and even with her red-rimmed puffy eyes, blotted cheeks and red nose from crying, she'd never looked lovelier.

"A pregnancy test..." she mused.

He nodded his head, not entirely trusting his own voice yet.

"How do we go about that?"

Sherlock gave her a puzzled look.

"You are somewhat of a celebrity, meaning, if I go out to buy a pregnancy test... It will be all over newspapers, magazines and the internet in an instant."

He pursed his lips in thought. She had a point.

"Doctor's appointment?" she ventured.

"Heaven's no!" he said. "The moment you schedule an appointment for pregnancy testing, Mycroft will know and then Mummy and Daddy will know too. I know you feel different, but I'm not ready for that yet."

Kyrie furrowed her brows at him and he quickly placed a kiss on them to smooth the wrinkle away. She melted in his arms and he revelled in the feeling.

"When would you like to tell them then?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said, resting his chin on top of her head. "Maybe a year or two. Five. Ten."

She started to chuckle.

"Be serious... how can I even get a test to make sure first? Before you start enrolling our son..."

"... or daughter."

"... in school."

"How about 'Rosalind' for a girl?"

"Really Sherlock? We're not even sure yet and you are already thinking of names?"

"I think it would be wise to reach consensus before the child is born. Better to get any disagreements about possible names out of the way early."

"Fine... Why 'Rosalind'?"

"After Rosalind Franklin, famous chemist."

"Though I like the name, we are not naming our child after famous dead people. If Rosalind had been a dearly beloved great-aunt or something, that would have been different."

"My dearly beloved grandmother was named Rosal..." Sherlock began, all intent to make a joke, but suddenly he stopped and became very quiet. He wasn't even lying. He'd loved his grandmother on his father's side a lot and she'd passed away way too soon.

"What is it?" Kyrie asked him.

For a long moment he said nothing, just kept holding her close to him, until he finally leaned down a bit and whispered in her ear. She was silent for a bit and... it was a weird sensation, but he was actually feeling anxious.

"It's beautiful," she told him. "Wow, now we just have to figure out a name in case it's a boy!"

"I'll gladly leave that up to you," he said, his voice a bit rough. "Let's head over to Mary and John's now. They are probably wondering where we are and... how things went."

"Oh!" Kyrie suddenly said. "Mary! Mary could get the pregnancy test for me!"

"But then we'd have to tell them!"

"Would you rather have it spread all over the news?"

"No," he agreed reluctantly. He then chuckled. "You just want to tell Mary."

"Yes..." she said a bit dreamily. He smiled, pulled her close and lifted her off the ground to whirl around with her.

"Let's tell them tomorrow then. Give me this one evening of just you, me and... and..."

"Our little one?"

He didn't reply; he just hugged her close to him again.


	116. To Pee Or Not To Pee

**A/N I'm so sorry guys! I really wanted to thank each and everyone of you for your wonderful reviews. They made me smile. They made me feel giddy! It was great reading them and they helped me through a few sucky days. My girls are now visiting their father for his week of the vacation and I feel empty! I haven't been able to write a word. I will try and write something tomorrow but now I'm just too tired and I decided to just upload this chapter and hope that tomorrow energy will come and my muse will strike again.**

 **So, without addressing you each individually, but with a big shout out to Sarah Rhi and Christie Murdoch, two new reviewers, I'm updating this now and then crashing to bed. Hope you enjoy. Thank you all, for taking the time to read AND reviews, that really is what gets me going and gives me energy to write!**

 **SSS**

Few hours later Kyrie was lying in Sherlock's arms. John had procured a lilo from somewhere and installed it in the living room, now that Rosie was sleeping in one of their two bedrooms.

At Sherlock's request, they'd not yet told their friends of Kyrie's possibly 'changed' status yet. He wanted this to be their little secret, even if just for one night. The four friends hadn't said a lot, but from the look in their eyes Kyrie could tell that John had already filled in his wife about everything. Plus, the moment they stepped inside, Mary had pulled Sherlock into a big bear hug without saying a word.

Then it had been Kyrie's turn to feel the extent of Mary's love and worry. "I'm so glad I won't have to threaten you to not leave that big old lump," she'd sniffed. "Just look at him, standing there all cocky and snooty as if- as if..." Mary sobbed quietly and gave Kyrie one last big squeeze. "You'll be there for him, right?"

"Of course," Kyrie said with a soft smile, because she knew the reason why he stood there, alternating between buoyancy and thoughtful contemplation. It did make her wonder, and not for the first time, what the hell had happened to them in Sherrinford.

And so, when the lights had dimmed and John and Mary too had retired for the night, Kyrie asked him what had happened. At first he didn't reply and Kyrie snuggled her back closer to his chest while he absently brushed his knuckles over the length of her arm.

"I've been to Hell and back today and, without expecting to, found myself in heaven at the end of it. Just, let me stay there for a little while longer."

She pulled his arms tighter around her and then linked her fingers through his. "You know I love you, right?"

Kyrie heard him pull in a shuddering breath and then felt him nod his head. A long moment later, maybe even hours, she started a bit when Sherlock softly started talking. She realised she'd been dosing off.

"Remember Redbeard?"

"Hm-mm," she whispered sleepily. "Your dog?"

"No... Not my... dog. My best friend, Victor. We used to play pirates. I was Yellowbeard and he was..."

Kyrie, sighed in dismay when she realised. "... Redbeard. 'Drowned Redbeard'..."

"Yes. Eurus... she felt alone and neglected. I was closest to her age but never really bothered to play with her. She got this- this jealous desire to kill my best friend. Not at all abnormal for very small children actually, especially before they fully understand how 'permanent' death is. It's a good thing most children don't have the capacity to act upon those kinds of feelings. Eurus however..."

"... had the desire _and_ the capacity."

"Yes. She taught me it was- that it was dangerous to feel, to love. So, I tried to remove myself as far from it as possible and- and created a disposition that was, well, that was _supposed_ to be impossible to love."

"Not so impossible..." Kyrie whispered and smiled when she felt him press a kiss underneath her earlobe.

"Not for you. And I'm glad of it," he replied.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" she asked hesitantly

"No," he admitted. "I learnt my sister killed my best friend and saw her kill people in cold blood. I'm not okay, but I will be. It's um, it's good to know that... you know... you're still with me."

"Always..."

She was slowly nodding off again when Sherlock's voice brought her back. "Kyrie?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think... Do you think your parents would have approved of me, as-as your husband?"

Kyrie managed a small sleepy smile. "They would have hated you at first sight."

She could practically feel his shoulders droop.

"You were... kind of an arrogant arsehole when we first met and, well... to be honest... no one was ever good enough for me."

She turned around in his arms and kissed his disappointment away. "But then, if they'd seen how happy you make me, they would have loved you as one of their own. So yes, once they'd have been sure about my happiness, they would absolutely have approved of you as my husband. Why do you ask?"

"Eurus... she had a photograph of your parents. I took it with me. But um, I realised... and I'm so sorry... I never bothered to ask you about them. I would- I'd … love to hear about them, if you don't mind."

"I don't," she whispered, her heart nearly bursting with all the love it could hardly contain, "I'll tell you'll all about them."

She didn't tell him that night, because soon they both fell asleep, feeling secure in each other's embrace.

SSS

The next morning it was a bit cramped in the small kitchen with four adults at the kitchen table and Miss Rosie sitting in her highchair. Rosie was contently munching away on a bit of toast and jam, making a wonderful mess of things while Mary was bustling around to make a full breakfast. And 'just buttered toast and a boiled egg' for Sherlock because he had _that_ face. Mary chuckled when Kyrie momentarily joined her and put in the request with a brief explanation.

Then Kyrie was quickly ordered to sit down, because Mary noticed her spying for things she could do to help.

Shortly after, they were all seriously enjoying the breakfast Mary had put in front of them. She'd really went out of her way; back bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, buttered toast, bangers and baked beans...

She smiled seeing the slightly horrified look on Sherlock's face when John helped put the plates on the table. He chuckled lightly though when Mary put his plate in front of him with a cheeky grin on her face; two slices of buttered toast and an egg holder with a semi hard-boiled egg.

"It's so good to finally be able to at least partially return the favour!" Mary beamed. "Still can't believe how often you've let us join you guys for dinner!"

Kyrie smiled secretively while popping a bit of mushroom in her mouth.

"I suspect there's a fairly high probability you'll get the chance to return more of that favour pretty soon," Sherlock said a bit quizzically.

"Really? And why's that?" Mary asked in between bites.

Kyrie finished her mouthful. "There's... something I'd like you to do for me."

She worried her lip a bit but Sherlock was busy studying his egg. Things would soon turn pretty emotional and undoubtedly awkward for him, so he probably didn't want to be the one to 'spill the beans'.

There really was no gentle way to ask what she was about to ask. "Could you... perhaps... get me a pregnancy test?" she finally asked tentatively.

Next moment John spit out a mouthful of tea and started coughing, Rosie chortled in delight and Mary just stared at Kyrie, fork with beans half way to her open mouth. She slowly lowered her fork and closed her mouth while arching a brow at her.

"You want me to get you a what?"

"Oh, come one Mary," Sherlock admonished her. "You heard her perfectly well. So did John, just look at this face."

When Kyrie looked over to her left, she couldn't prevent a laugh from bubbling up. He had the most hilarious look of shock on his face she'd ever seen.

John slapped a hand in front of his mouth and rubbed it while staring wide-eyed at his friends.

Mary pointed between the two of them. "You- you... this is not a joke? You actually want me to... to get you, um, one of those... things?"

Kyrie could feel her face splitting in a slightly embarrassed grin. "Yes," she confirmed.

Her best friend put her hands in front of her mouth. "Nooooo!"

Both John and Mary then looked at Sherlock who started to fidget slightly. "You've got one of your own! This really shouldn't come as a surprise for you," he mumbled, slightly pink on the cheeks and around his ears.

"Yeah, but this is you... I mean, all the teasing aside... I never would have guessed..."

"Really, John?" Sherlock huffed. "You never would have guessed?"

"I'm sorry!" John cried out. "I'm sorry for being so shocked right now! I mean, seeing you actually fall in love with Kyrie and then being in a-a real relationship with her was surprising enough. Oh my God, I'm-I'm ruining your big announcement... But, is this really for real?"

Kyrie gave Sherlock a look and Mary instantly caught on. "No! Did he do 'the signs of three' thing again?"

"Not really... But... he _did_ make the deduction."

John threw back his head and started laughing uncontrollably.

"Sherlock, you didn't!" Mary giggled.

"Well, excuse me for observing and noticing these things before you lot!"

"But you are not sure?" she asked.

"Not one hundred percent," he admitted, "But... fairly confident that she is... with child."

"With child huh?" Mary laughed. "Well, we'll have to confirm this as soon as possible. Excuse me gents and my lady, I'm going to pop out and get myself a pregnancy test. Because... that's what this all is about, isn't it? Yeah, 'course it is. Be right back!"

And like a whirlwind Mary breezed away leaving behind three adults and a baby, well... toddler, in a bit of an awkward silence.

"So... a-a baby," John said in a failed attempt to sound casual. "Um, have you discussed baby names yet?"

Kyrie noticed the slightly horrified look on Sherlock's face and was glad that John didn't. "Not yet," she lied effortlessly. "We- we wanted to make sure first."

John nodded his head. "Yes, yeah... of course. Well, you know my full name and Mary's, just in case... you know."

Sherlock snorted. "We're not naming our baby after you. Or Mary."

"I don't know," Kyrie said with a teasing smile. "I've always been quite partial to Hamish."

The awkwardness disappeared and they engaged in a light bout of banter. When Kyrie got to her feet to help clear the table John instantly turned her back round. The moment she reached out to get Rosie from her high chair, Sherlock sprung up and beat her to it.

She sighed in dismay and instantly knew that, if she was indeed pregnant, neither of her boys would allow her to lift a finger in the coming months. It would be such a drag!

When Mary finally returned from her quest, Kyrie laughed seeing the ridiculously large sunglasses and the shawl she had tied around her hair. Mary just grinned and held up her haul.

Suddenly three grown-ups were giving her expectant looks.

"What... right now?" she asked incredulously. "I don't even have to..."

Five minutes later a huge mug of tea was thrust into her hands.

"Trust me on this, Kirry," Mary said. "This will make you have to go within ten minutes!"

Mary pushed Kyrie to the living room and plopped her down on the sofa. Sherlock settled next to her and John and Mary seated themselves in a couple of armchairs. Rosie, who had her first birthday coming up in just a few days, was getting more confident in pulling herself up on the coffee table and tottering around it. The moment she got Kyrie in her sights, she stretched out her chubby little arms in a silent demand to be picked up. She pouted a bit when Sherlock plucked her from the floor instead and settled her on his knee.

"Auntie _Kyrie_ will have to go to the bathroom soon, so better stay with me, hmm?"

Kyrie could feel her cheeks heat in embarrassment and nearly hid her face in the huge mug of tea. She had not expected that they'd all want her to take that test pronto. On the other hand... she guessed she would not have acted differently if the roles had been reversed.

When she felt the familiar pressure in her bladder, Kyrie tried to ignore any and all form of embarrassment she felt and simply held out her hand towards Mary. Mary grinned and handed her the test.

She got up and excused herself, Mary right behind her.

"Need help, Kirry?" Mary whispered.

"I think I know how to pee on a stick, Mare!"

Mary just laughed in her face before Kyrie slammed the door of the toilet closed behind her. Kyrie waited till she heard Mary's footsteps retreat and breathed out a shuddering breath.

Now that she was actually doing this, she felt queasy in her stomach and the urge to vomit rose up. Nerves.

Kyrie repressed the feeling and quickly washed her hands with soap and water before she opened the package and the wrapper containing the test...

Ten minutes later, her clothes back in place and smoothed down, Kyrie was sitting on the toiled. Hands buried in her hair. She felt ill. The strip was resting on a piece of toilet paper next to the tap of the washbasin.

There was a soft knock on the door. "Kyrie?" Sherlock's voice sounded a bit muffled coming from behind the door.

"Have you..."

"Yes!" Kyrie managed to say, feeling a bit flustered.

"Oh..."

She'd thought it would be easy. Just pee on the stick, wait for a few minutes and then... check the results. The peeing bit had been easy and, to be honest, so had the waiting bit. The checking bit... she hadn't been able to do it.

"So...?"

"I haven't looked yet," she blurted out, feeling foolish for being so scared.

"Open up for me, let's-let's look together, okay?"

"No, if I get up I'll see it lying there."

"Then close your eyes."

Realising she could actually use his presence right about now, Kyrie closed her eyes and got to her feet. She took the few steps to the door and undid the lock. When Sherlock carefully opened the door and she opened her eyes, she saw that his face was an impassive mask, but his eyes were filled with emotion. She looked up at him with tear filled eyes and she knew he could see exactly how much she wanted this.

Just a slight pull and she landed against his chest, his arms wrapped around her. Not awkward at all, to stand there, hugging each other in their friends' toilet, too scared to look at the result of a pregnancy test.

Sherlock was less hesitant about checking the strip though. He reached out one hand and lifted it up to see.

"What was two lines again?" he asked, his voice hoarse and a bit rough.

Kyrie gasped when he, inadvertently, gave her the answer she'd been hoping for. "Pregnant," she whispered.

He swallowed and... seemed to shut down. Sherlock stared at the strip, a look of incomprehension on his face, blank look in his eyes... not even blinking.

Kyrie smiled through the tears that now rolled down her cheeks. She wiggled herself past him, gave him a quick soothing rub down his back and a kiss on his cheek. He didn't move, he didn't speak... He'd snap out of it at his own time.

Hesitantly, Kyrie walked back to the living room where she found her two friends waiting for her with equally anxious looks on their faces. Mary was desperately trying to keep Rosie quiet, who didn't seem to care much for the silence in the room and demanded attention.

"Well?" Mary whispered.

Kyrie tentatively placed a hand against the flat of her stomach and gave them a wobbly smile. "Sherlock is um, still back there... I think _I_ broke him this time."

By the time Sherlock finally came drifting back into the living room, Kyrie had already been pulled into a hug multiple times. A fierce, yet careful hug from John and Mary just couldn't stop hugging altogether. The moment Mary caught Sherlock in her sight, she wanted to launch herself into another hug, but stopped when she noticed the bewildered look on his face.

John grinned at him. "So, 'dad', how do we feel?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. He staggered to one of the armchairs and flopped down.

"He's ecstatic..." Kyrie answered for him, "... once he realises we are having a baby that is."

"Sorry, that took a bit longer than expected," Sherlock suddenly said, sounding fairly collected though perhaps a bit thoughtful. "Mycroft just called me..."

Oh...

"Mycroft has stayed behind at Sherrinford overseeing things. There will be a new rotation of staff. All previous personnel will be carefully evaluated and scrutinised to see if they were only under Eurus' influence or if there was also a pre-existing connection with Moriarty."

"And Eurus?" Kyrie asked carefully.

"Back in Sherrinford. Secure this time."

Kyrie could feel herself deflate. She couldn't imagine what it must have been like for him. First finding out he had a sister, someone he had erased from his own memory. Then witnessing her kill people and finding out she was responsible for the death of his childhood friend. All those repressed traumatic memories that had suddenly come flooding back.

If Kyrie could feel herself being flung from giddy excitement to indescribable sadness, she had no idea what this had to be like for Sherlock.

"Mycroft has agreed that our parents deserve to know the truth about Eurus. They will come over later this week."

Kyrie could tell by the look in his eyes that there was more. Sherlock swallowed and stared off into space, a pained expression on his face.

"According to Mycroft, Eurus is no longer talking. She won't communicate with anyone in any way. The last thing she told him was that 'I should know by now' and that I shouldn't make the same mistake again. Obviously, Mycroft is now obsessed with finding out what it is I should know by now."

"Kyrie being pregnant," Mary guessed. Sherlock nodded his head.

"Wait," John asked, "Eurus knew?"

"Yes. She visited Kyrie while she was still in a coma, even played the song I composed for her. I think she was curious about her and eventually decided to use her in her tests. Strange as it may sound, I don't think she actually meant to harm Kyrie."

John sighed heavily and rubbed his face with his hand. "What was her point in all of this, Sherlock? Why go through all this trouble. Why put you through hell?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "Who ever knows? There's no way to delve into the depths of her psychosis. I'm not sure she really knew herself. A chance to reconnect on some level? Find out what makes us tick emotionally? One moment she seemed to love me while the next she wanted me dead. She was jealous of my love for others. Perhaps she wanted to learn how to love herself and got lost in the process."

He smiled wryly. "Emotional context. In trying to figure us out, she was perhaps trying to figure out herself. Through all that, she recognised one thing... How alone she felt when I spent all my time with Victor. At some point she must have figured out Kyrie's pregnant. Since I stopped visiting her in the hospital..." Sherlock raised his eyes to look at Kyrie.

"I think in her own misguided way, she was trying to warn me not to fall back to my old pattern of ignoring those who matter, should matter, the most. Anyway, my parents will be coming over at the Diogenes Club. Since Baker Street is not exactly a fit place to receive guests, and my parents won't leave without seeing you..."

"Of course I'll come. You really don't have to ask," Kyrie said instantly.

Sherlock gave her a small smile and nodded his head.

"And we'll help to fix the old place," John said, looking at Mary for back-up.

"Yes, of course!" Mary agreed. "In fact, why don't we go over there right now and see what needs to be done?"

"Everything!" Kyrie laughed.

"Then we'll do everything!" Mary said with conviction.


	117. A New Kind Of Baker Street

**A/N I finally mustered up the energy to write a new chapter, I didn't want to post this one before that. So, officially this would be the end of TFP, still a few more chapters left. I think at the very least still 4 or 5 chapters to go. Updating those last chapters will be irregular and depends on how I feel and how much writing I get done. Almost there! Are there betting pools in place about the baby being a boy or a girl? What do you think or hope the name will be? I need a bit of fun guys, bring in the discussion! Though I've already settled on the name... there might still be room for another name. Sherlock has three after all!**

 **Wynnleaf Yes, even though Sherlock already deduced Kyrie was pregnant, seeing it confirmed froze him up a bit ;-)**

 **Lovesagoodstory Trust me, with exception maybe for this chapter, all next chapters is just fluff and catering to the romantics! My girls will come home tomorrow and I will then take the weekend off to play games with them!**

 **Musical Bear I hadn't even thought of that! I wanted Sherlock to bring up a name of a famous female scientist and I didn't want to go for the obvious (Marie Curie). I do believe John would not have been too happy about Rosalind either! The name he gave Kyrie is nothing like it though! Your other question will be answered in this chapter.**

 **Companion Teresa I'm glad the chapter was worth the wait. I hope this one was too. Yes, I am still continuing but there won't be that many chapters after this one. Certainly not another 115 ;-)**

 **Kuppcake Thank you!**

 **DreamonAlina Aww I'm glad you feel so excited! There's plenty more to come! Next chapter had me all giddy and crying!**

 **Purplestan So am I! Sherlock finally getting the happiness he deserves!**

 **Valerie Chavous, thank you for all your continued reviews!**

 **Elbafo Same goes for you, but you already know this ;-)**

 **Jane S. Gold LOL! I can safely say it's none of those names! I _can_ say that neither Kyrie nor Sherlock would ever settle for 'regular' names. I absolutely love it myself. Two of the three things you mentioned will be handled in this chapter. The third thing will occur in a later chapter. Yes, Kyrie is giving Sherlock the history of her parents. Also, Valerie Chavous came up with a ship name for this couple and I absolutely adore it. The Sherlock/Kyrie ship is named 'Sherrie'. **

**Thewickedprinces Haha I think everyone is excited about baby Holmes! And, though the name has already long been decided, a possible third name is open for negotiation.**

 **I you all enjoy reading this chapter, don't forget to review!**

SSS

When they arrived at the Diogenes Club and were about to meet his parents and Mycroft in his office, Kyrie pulled Sherlock aside.

"Sherlock, you said that Eurus played your song for me."

"Yes," he said, furrowing his brow at her, as if he was unsure where she was going with this.

"And she's no longer talking? She won't communicate with anyone in any way?"

"She has passed beyond our view, yes. There are no words that can reach her now."

"But what about music, Sherlock? Music is communication as well."

He pondered the thought. "But, that could take multiple visits and even then... we can't be sure she'll respond."

"You'd be communicating with your sister, Sherlock. Doesn't that make it worth while the effort? You could try at least."

"It could mean regular visits to Sherrinford... I'd be gone often."

Kyrie looked into his eyes and saw he wanted to do this. He was only throwing up objections so she could tear them down for him, to show she was really on board.

"So?"

"You'd be okay with that?"

"She's your sister, Sherlock. I don't think she was inherently evil. Nobody can become acculturated when shut off from the rest of humanity from early childhood. When your uncle Rudy decided to take Eurus away, he destroyed any chance she had of ever joining the rest of society. Given a chance, I'm positive that, with the appropriate help, your mother could have figured out some better way to guide and control her."

Sherlock was quiet but she knew he was listening intently, adding her words to the file of his sister, maybe even changing his perspective a bit.

"Locked in a heavy guarded institution with no moral compass, it left your sister open for 'evil'. Seems like that was the only game in town for her. Though I'm sure your uncle meant well, and-and Mycroft too... they both let fear deprive a young girl of her only chance. And now... now the best she can hope for is the solace of family visits, because – fully aware of the severity of her actions or not – she _has_ killed people. She has been stumbling alone in the dark for so long now, don't let her be alone any..."

She couldn't finish her sentence because Sherlock had grabbed her face and silenced her with a kiss.

The door flew open, startling the couple away from each other, well... just partially.

Kyrie fought between the urge to blush and giggle, seeing the slightly uncomfortable and shocked look on Mycroft's face. "I wondered what happened to you after I received notification of your arrival. You do realise your arrival has been announced at least twenty minutes ago?"

"Your point being?" Sherlock asked him dryly. He arched a full brow at his brother.

Mycroft wisely decided to ignore his brother's remark. "We were waiting," he simply stated, then opened the door further and gestured inside.

It would have been nice to think of the reunion as a happy one, but there was too much underlying tension for anyone present to feel comfortable. Mummy was pale a sheet, her lips pulled in a tight line and her eyes wide in cold fury and shock.

Daddy had such a devastated look on his face, as if someone had reached into his chest, pulled out his heart, crushed it and then shoved it back again.

Clearly, Mycroft had ignored Sherlock's advice and went ahead to give his parents the news their daughter was not as dead as they had believed her to be.

"Alive?! For all these years?" Her voice was trembling with emotion. She glared at him as he walked past her.

Daddy was sitting stock still on a chair in front of the desk as Mycroft slowly made his way behind it again.

Sherlock and Kyrie remained standing at the far end of the room, Kyrie leaning into him as he leaned against the closed office door.

Kyrie was a bit worried about Mycroft. He'd said A and was now forced to say B. After all that had happened in Sherrinford, and Kyrie was pretty sure that Sherlock had 'cleaned up' the details for her, she wasn't sure Mycroft was fit to handle a conversation like this.

"How is that even _p_ _ossible_?!"

"What Uncle Rudy began..." Mycroft tried to keep his cool, but the way he hesitated and couldn't meet his mother's eyes, told Kyrie exactly how insecure he was actually feeling. "... I thought it best to continue."

"I'm not asking how you did it, idiot boy, I'm asking how _could_ you?" Mummy spat at her eldest son.

"I was trying to be kind," he said softly, finally raising his eyes to hers in a plea for understanding.

Kyrie noticed how Sherlock absently brought up his hand and started chewing on the nail of his thumb. She had not seen him bite his nails for quite some time now. She reached up her own hand, tenderly linked her fingers through his and brought down his hand along with hers. He gave her a tiny little smile.

"Kind?" Mummy gasped in a pained breath. " _Kind_? You told us that our daughter was _dead_." She choked up on the words.

"Better that than tell you what she had become," Mycroft told her in a grim tone. "I'm sorry."

Finally, Daddy seemed to get some life back in him. He raised himself to his feet and leaned his hands on the table. "Whatever she became, whatever she is now, Mycroft... she remains our daughter."

"And my sister," he shot back.

"Then you should have done better!"

Oh, Mummy was really angry and she was looking for a scape goat to incinerate. Unfortunately for Mycroft, uncle Rudy was in a nursing home. Dementia had robbed him of his brilliant though eccentric mind. It effectively now turned Mycroft into the scape goat.

"He did his best." Sherlock came to his brother's aide and defended him. Mycroft looked away a bit, a fleeting look of surprise crossing his features. Kyrie smiled at the small exchange.

"Then he's very limited," Mummy bristled.

Kyrie shook her head and pushed herself away from Sherlock.

She put a gentle hand on her mother-in-law's shoulder, but the poor woman started with a jump anyway and turned to look at her with a bit of a wild look in her eyes.

"Mummy," Kyrie started softly. "I understand that – right now – you are very angry, rightly so. I can't imagine what it must be like to know that a daughter you 'buried' years ago, suddenly turns out to be alive. But... don't forget that Mycroft was just a teenage boy when uncle Rudy took Eurus away. Mycroft trusted him to know what he was doing. By the time Mycroft became an adult and, well, took over the responsibility and the power to choose her fate, Eurus had already been locked up for at least a decade."

Kyrie took a deep breath, steeling herself against the storm she could still see raging in Mummy's eyes. "Whatever happened when Eurus was a child, it was already lost to time and the trauma of her mistreatment in Sherrinford. Before, she'd been treated like a lab rat and did not receive the mental health care she needed. Mycroft at least tried to make sure there were no more invasive 'evaluations'."

She turned her head to look at Mycroft who looked to be on the verge of tears but struggled against them.

"Your eldest son was forced to keep a horrible secret from you, for years. When he finally had the power and authority to inform you, it was already too late for Eurus. He really did think it was kinder to allow you your memory of your little girl instead of confronting you with the broken person she'd become."

Mummy clasped a hand for her mouth and doubled over in pain, reaching out a hand towards Kyrie to steady herself. Kyrie gently pulled her up and embraced the distraught woman.

"Where is she?" Daddy managed to ask.

"Back in Sherrinford," Mycroft said. "I... made sure it's secure this time." He looked at his father. "People have _died_. She has taken lives and without doubt she _will_ kill again if she has the opportunity. There's no possibility she'll ever be able to leave."

Daddy pressed his lips tightly together and pulled in a shuddering breath through his nose. "When can we see her?" he asked.

"There's no point," Mycroft told him.

His words instantly upset his mother again who had just started to calm down a bit.

"How _dare_ you say that?"

Mycroft closed his eyes and started to speak more firmly, exerting his authority. "She won't talk. She has stopped all form of communication. She's drifted away too far where words can no longer reach her."

Mummy let go of Kyrie and looked towards her younger son. "Sherlock. Well?" She now turned her hopes to him. "What do we do now?"

He pushed himself away from the door and went to stand next to Kyrie. "Actually, Kyrie has an idea that... could work. It's worth a try at least, if Mycroft will permit me regular visits to Sherrinford."

Mycroft raised his head and furrowed his brows. "Whatever for? What would be the point?"

Sherlock licked his lips and briefly looked at Kyrie. She smiled encouragingly at him.

"Eurus is not talking and she is no longer communicating with words. Either spoken or written or gestured. Words, language... They are not the only ways to communicate. There's also music. Let me try, Mycroft, please."

His brother gave him a curt nod and Mummy sighed in relief.

Kyrie wasn't exactly sure how it happened or what they did, but somehow either she or Sherlock gave it away. Maybe it was the tender look in his eyes or the way she looked at him. Maybe the way his eyes kept drifting to her stomach or the way his fingers lightly skimmed over the area.

It didn't really matter what did it, but Mummy suddenly caught on. She clasped a hand in front of her mouth and stared wide-eyed at Kyrie. Daddy seemed completely oblivious until his wife started making choking, sobbing noises.

Mycroft looked up, Daddy too and Sherlock stiffened next to Kyrie.

"Is it true? Tell me I'm not some silly old lady imagining things," Mummy whispered, her voice trembling.

Kyrie gave Sherlock a brief look. She knew he wasn't too happy about his parents finding out so soon, but she couldn't lie, especially not now. Thankfully, Sherlock seemed to be on the same page as her and he gave her the slightest of nods, telling her he was fine.

"It's true, Mummy," she simply stated. The next moment she found herself pulled in a tight embrace. Her mother-in-law simply held her, for once at a loss for words to say.

Realisation dawned on Daddy and Mycroft as well, if the looks on their faces were anything to go by. And Sherlock just stood there like a log, looking very uncomfortable.

"When?" Mummy asked, smiling through her tears as she pulled away.

"I- um..." Kyrie looked at Sherlock for support. She'd only known herself for just a few days and she honestly had no idea when she was due. Hadn't even stopped to think about it.

"End of September," Sherlock said, the beginnings of a smile on his lips.

Mycroft cleared his throat, straightened his tie and buttoned up his jacket. He then rose to his feet and, after a brief moment to ready or perhaps to steel himself, he approached his younger brother and extended his hand. "I believe congratulations are in order?"

Sherlock opened his mouth a few times, staring at the hand his brother held out to him. Suddenly all colour seemed to drain from his face and he did something that no one in the room had expected. It left two – perhaps three – grown men dumbfounded and reduced two women to tears.

Sherlock ignored the hand and pulled his brother into a – slightly awkward – embrace. They stood there, rooted to the spot, both unsure where to put their arms and hands. Both brothers finally decided to briefly pat each other on the back before they quickly released each other.

Unable to say anything, Mummy pulled Kyrie towards her and placed an almost reverent kiss on her forehead.

They had plenty of time to figure things out. For now, words were not required.

SSS

It was the start of a busy but invigorating time. Mrs Hudson was looking after Rosie downstairs whenever John and Mary were around at the flat to help clear and clean the place up.

The bathroom and bedroom only suffered a bit a smoke damage. All clothes, Sherlock's dressing gowns, even the bed and bath linen, had been dry cleaned and a cleaning crew had already come in to clean the ceiling, floor and the walls. So, at least they had their own place to sleep again. And, judging the looks Sherlock was giving her, she wasn't the only one looking forward to some alone time.

In the burnt-out living room, Sherlock – in shirt and trousers – walked across the floor, stepping over the ruined books and debris. Mary was going through the debris in the kitchen as Sherlock picked up something from the floor and walked across to where he found the large animal skull lying on the burnt rug.

John, standing near the fireplace, held up something he'd just found – the earphones which usually adorned the skull's head. Sherlock smiled and lifted the skull so that John could put the earphones back onto it and then looped the cable over the top.

Kyrie held out her hands to take the skull, but Sherlock turned away from her and started looking for somewhere he could put it.

She sighed and walked over to Sherlock's overturned chair and bent to set it upright. A disapproving sound behind her made her look up. Sherlock scowled at her, still holding the skull and headphones, and he lifted his chair himself with his other hand and set it upright.

Kyrie then picked up one of the dining chairs. The moment Sherlock tried to pry the chair from her hands, she gave him such an angry glare, he raised his hands in defeat and allowed her to set it on its feet. John smiled at that from where he was standing near the right-hand window and Mary started laughing when Sherlock forced Kyrie to sit down on the very chair she'd set upright, a wide smirk on his face.

Days passed and they all worked together to restore 221B. Sherlock paid visits to Sherrinford in between working and cleaning in the flat. The first time he'd returned, he'd had the saddest look on his face. The second time he was no longer sad, but weary and also determined. The third time a small smile graced his lips.

In the dark burnt ruin of their flat, a force of workmen was working diligently to get the place back to normal. Even though John often had a look of despair on his face, probably wondering if that goal was ever going to be reached. Mary was a champ in kissing his gloomy expression away.

The moment 221B showed a bit more semblance to its previous state, Sherlock started flopping down in his chair again to work on 'cases'. He'd told Kyrie about his plans for his career, John was completely on board with it, now he just needed to discuss things with Greg.

Kyrie planted a kiss on the top of his head while he sent Greg a text.

\- You know where to find me.  
SH

When most of the burnt debris had been removed, workmen started to redecorate.

Amidst the madness, Sherlock and Kyrie spent one day off together and did not allow anyone to set foot in their home. The day was spent with nothing else but lazying about in bed. Kyrie laughed at Sherlock's flights of fancy, firmly pressed against his chest while his hand drew lazy circles over her stomach, still flat as a pancake, as he painted their future with words.

That day, they needed but one look at each other when the topic of 'the new look' came up. They both silently agreed... the flat would be restored exactly as it had been, because that was their home.

It took some time, but they found the exact wallpaper for the fireplace wall. John even spray painted a new smiley face on the sofa wall and Kyrie folded a new yellow scarf into a triangle to turn the smiley into a bandit. She then quickly hopped out of the way and watched as Sherlock raised his long-muzzled pistol, spun the chamber, flicked it into place, then aimed towards the bandit smiley and fired twice. He smiled down at Kyrie, then lifted the muzzle and let her blow across the top.

All in all, it took about five weeks to restore the place to its former glory. Five weeks in which Rosie's first birthday had come and gone and had been celebrated with a big bang! Little Miss Rosie had been spoiled rotten, though the little munchkin couldn't care less. She seemed the most happy with the giant birthday cake.

In the flat, all the familiar items had been cleaned, repaired if needed, or had been replaced with identical copies. When 221B was finally ready to 'open' for business, Sherlock – dressed in his blue dressing gown – stabbed his knife down into an open letter on the mantelpiece with relish, as John stood beside him holding the piece of paper in position.

They turned as Mrs Hudson came into the room and looked at them in exasperation. They smiled sheepishly at her. Kyrie hugged their landlady to her side and she found she was crying again. Something she did a lot lately. Because she was feeling so damn happy, all the happiness her heart couldn't contain came flooding from her eyes.


	118. I Will

**A/N Not a very long chapter this time but to add a portion of the next bit would seem odd and I really liked where this ended. I hope you guys love this as much as I loved writing it. It had me all misty eyed!**

 **IronLace I won't be using any of Sherlock's names for the name of his first born son. And though I think Melody is indeed a lovely name, Kyrie and Sherlock will be following up with their parents' tradition of 'untraditional' names. Though Melodia as a second name would definitely be an option! I changed my mind, in the case of a girl, Melodia will definitely be the second name!**

 **DreamonAlina It's only been February for you, I've been writing this thing since November last year! So, to be honest, I'll be glad when it's done! Kyrie is actually all for naming their baby after John in the case they have a son. Though Sherlock would probably agree, he feels that 'John' is way too plain and therefore not suitable for his child.**

 **EllemichelleP Sshh! No more guessing for you! Aw, I hope you feel much better now!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 You will just have to find out whether Baby Holmes will be a girl or a boy. I don't like Hamish, pretty sure that Kyrie doesn't either, so it's not Hamish. I do agree that, if their first baby is a boy, Kyrie would want 'Mycroft' in the name as well. And she absolutely loved Sherlock's input in case it's a girl.**

 **Purplestan Thank you! Hopefully you will love this chapter. I sure loved writing it!**

 **Dee Aw thank you! And there's nothing wrong with your English! Thank you for your kind words. I can safely say they will never have twins (it's never twins ;-) ) And don't worry, though their story is almost over, I still have a few things left for them. It's not over yet!**

 **Jane S. Gold Thank you! I'm glad that everyone seems to be happy with how I rounded up the show. Now I just have my own things left to tell. Pretty much just fluff and happiness. They've been through enough together!**

 **Companion Teresa Ah, yes... their day off. There will be a chapter coming up that 'hints' at the things they've been discussing. Let's just say that Sherlock still manages to surprise Kyrie!**

 **Okay, don't stop discussing the baby names please, I'm really enjoying it!**

SSS

The first thing Kyrie noticed when she walked through the door of 221 Baker Street, was the quiet. It was not a normal quiet. Meaning, either Sherlock was out, or he was meditating and strolling down his Mind Palace. Even then, Kyrie was used to Mrs Hudson providing all sorts of domestic sounds from the sanctuary of her flat, even when Sherlock was out or unusually quiet.

Kyrie walked to Mrs Hudson's kitchen door. A peek inside showed her the table with the wobbly chair, a pristine kitchen counter, but no Mrs Hudson. Furrowing her brows, Kyrie turned around and climbed the steps to 221B. At 13 weeks of pregnancy, this was still easy to do. She was a bit worried though about having to waddle up those steps each and every day when she was as big as a whale.

She'd once voiced her concerns with Sherlock and he'd dryly told her it would be quite impossible for her to actually get as large as a whale. She'd not been amused. It didn't help his case that she'd also still been angry at him for missing their first ultrasound appointment just the week before.

Kyrie sighed when she opened the door to a living room that was as empty as Mrs Hudson's kitchen. She did not have to look around to know she would not find a note. At the moment it was the bane of her existence, Sherlock running off to God knew where without informing her in any way he was out or where he was.

Anger welled up inside her, for the umpteenth time lately. The last couple of weeks he'd been dashing around and she'd hardly seen him. And whenever she'd ask what he was doing, he'd give his standard answer. "Just a case. Don't worry, I'm not chasing after a serial killer." As if that would ease her mind!

With every step she took, Kyrie was getting more and more angry, until her gaze was drawn to something that was stuck on the fridge with a magnet. She couldn't believe her eyes and walked up to the fridge to get a better look.

As if the note itself wasn't puzzling enough, the four words on it were even more puzzling. 'Look in the bedroom.' He had signed it with an 'S' with a grand flourish.

Kyrie arched a brow. She wasn't sure if she was in the mood for one of his silly games. Even though she knew he was capable enough to make sure she _did_ get in the mood if she wasn't. She sighed heavily and stalked towards the bedroom and without preamble she flung open the door, half expecting to find a stark naked Consulting Detecting beckoning her from their bed underneath their most luxurious bed covers. When she found nothing of the sort, she wasn't sure whether she felt relieved or disappointed.

Instead she found two boxes on the bed with a little note between them. 'Wear us'.

Now what?

Kyrie first lifted the lid of the smaller box and she gasped seeing its contents. Inside the box were a pair of gorgeous chic ankle-tie heels, with hand-sewn beads and crystal embellishments. They looked crazy expensive and she wondered what her mad husband was up to now. The shoes made her feel a bit giddy inside. If someone would tell her they'd been plucked right out of a fairy tale, she'd instantly believe them. Absolutely Cinderella worthy!

It made her stomach flutter in anticipation of what she'd find in the second box. Kyrie tentatively lifted the lid and her heart somersaulted in her chest seeing the bohemian lace over mousseline. She gulped when she lifted the fabric and an extraordinary beautiful dress came spilling from the box. She needed a moment to take in every aspect of the beautiful intricate lace, just a hint of stretch in the fabric... Soft, flowing... A low back, ribbon straps. She sighed at the beauty. Okay, chic shoes... fancy dress. Apparently they were going to a party she didn't know about?

Kyrie shrugged her shoulders. Never one to pull up her nose for beautiful clothes, she instantly dashed into the bathroom, turned on the tap to get the water in the shower running and then quickly started to peel off her current simple blouse, skirt and underwear.

She hummed in content when the hot water cascaded on her skin. She was careful to keep her hair out of the way but otherwise let her hands drift over her body with a nice amount of shower foam and moaned at the sheer decadence. She smiled when her hands skimmed over her stomach that, though still quite flat, had started to fill out just a bit. The beginnings of a baby bump!

Once done, she carefully stepped away from the shower and quickly dried herself. She was too curious about what the hell was going on, so she applied a minimum amount of make-up. Sherlock never liked the heavy smoky eyes anyway. Just a bit of colour, brown eye liner and mascara would do. Peach coloured lipstick and blush, a simple but classy chignon in her hair and she was ready to put on that amazing dress and the gorgeous shoes.

When she was all done, she wondered what was next. Was Sherlock on his way? She decided to send him a message and retrieved her phone from the pocket of her coat.

\- Found your presents. Love them!  
And you! K.

She worried her lip waiting for his response, hoping she'd not have to wait long. She smiled when she instantly got a reply.

\- I request and require your presence.  
There's a car waiting outside. S.

She stared at the message for a few long moments. What the hell was she supposed to make of that? She quickly walked over to the right window and peered outside. Sure enough, a black car was pulled up at the curb and a man, dressed in formal professional attire, was standing in front of the passenger door, his hands clasped in front of him. One of Mycroft's men, she was sure. So, whatever Sherlock was up to, he'd dragged his brother into it.

Kyrie furrowed her brows and decided to send her elusive brother-in-law a message.

\- Why is one of your cars waiting outside for me? K.

She didn't have to wait long for a reply... she wasn't impressed with the answer though.

\- To take you to your destination of course. Get in. We are waiting. M.

She sighed in exasperation and hurried her way out of the flat. She really needed to have that talk with Sherlock again about his communication skills, or lack thereof.

The man in front of the government issued car straightened up the moment he set eyes on her and instantly opened the door for her. Before she could get in however, the driver draped a beautiful – and most importantly – warm shawl around her shoulders. The moment Kyrie got inside, she was relieved to find the heating had been turned on to reach an agreeable temperature. She loved the dress, but ribbon straps in March?

"Are you ready, Mrs Holmes?" the driver asked her.

"Um yes, can you tell me where we are going?"

"Sorry Mrs Holmes. I'm not at liberty to say."

Kyrie rolled her eyes and spent the rest of the half an hour drive in silence. When the car drove up the driveway to the beautiful elegant mansion Kyrie knew to be the Hendon Hall Hotel, Kyrie's mouth dropped open. She'd seen it on pictures, but never actually been there herself. It was utterly gorgeous, adorned with elegant Greek columns. She was pretty sure Mary could tell her exactly when the mansion had been built and in what style.

The car pulled up right in front of the hotel and the driver got out to open the door for her.

Not sure what to think, Kyrie got out, feeling a bit at a loss, standing here by herself.

"One more thing, Mrs Holmes, I'm supposed to give you this..."

Kyrie looked up in surprise when the driver suddenly procured a soft pink rose from behind his back and held it out for her. She took it, while giving him a quizzical look, but he merely tipped his hat and smiled.

Soon, a friendly looking hotel hostess walked up to her. "Here you go, Mrs Holmes." She too handed her a rose and then motioned for Kyrie to follow her.

The hostess guided her deeper into the hotel, allowing for brief stops as people seemed to be lined up to hand her a white, pink or peach coloured rose. She was holding quite a bouquet of roses when the hostess finally opened a door for Kyrie and smiled brightly at her.

"Daddy!" Kyrie cried out when she spotted Daddy Holmes just outside the inner doors. He was dressed sharply in a very nice looking suit. He crooked his arm, a huge smile on his face, and offered it to her.

"What is going on?" Kyrie whispered.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked her, a teasing glint in his eyes. "You've got him, my darling girl. Like swans, remember? Just like I told you a few years ago. He's yours forever. Or, for as long as you'll have him. He can be a bit impossible after all, like his mum."

"In that case, I think eternity will still not be long enough," Kyrie said with a giggle, prompting Daddy to place a kiss on her head.

"Are you ready?" he asked her. "I hope you don't mind me taking this liberty. This is more a job for a father." Tears were glistening in his old eyes. "I still miss my dear friends, your parents, they would be so proud right now!"

"Daddy? I have no idea what you are talking about and... to be honest... you are kind of scaring me a bit," Kyrie said nervously. She had a feeling what was about to happen and her emotions were threatening to start a big old rampage inside of her.

"Come on," he urged her softly. "He's waiting for you."

"I'm not sure I can do this," she said with a shaky smile. "I'll only cry."

"That's perfectly okay," he said, lovingly patting her hand. "So will I." He winked at her.

Kyrie let out a shuddering breath and placed a trembling hand on his arm and tightly held the bouquet of roses as she allowed her father-in-law to guide her into a small room.

There were red columns on the right, windows to the left and white chairs – decorated with dainty lacy shawls wrapped around them – were aligned in two rows on either side of a red carpet.

A select group of people turned around in those white chairs to look at her. All people she knew and loved and who regarded her with bright smiles. Mummy, Mycroft, Mary and John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Janine, Kathryn... Molly. She even spotted a few glistening eyes here and there.

Her eyes were inadvertently drawn to the one person who stood there, waiting for her, at the end of the aisle. Sherlock.

The moment Daddy guided Kyrie down the red carpet, the musical notes of a violin filled the small room, playing 'Air' by Johann Sebastian Bach. She listened to it and was pretty sure she recognised Sherlock's unpretentious interpretation of the music.

At that moment Sherlock turned around to face her, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. He was dressed superbly in charcoal grey striped trousers, a striped waistcoat alternating Prussian and Sapphire blue, a stylish black morning coat in a satin weave, a crisp white shirt and a Midnight blue cravat tied around his neck. Instead of a boutonnière, a silky grey pocket square was visible in the breast pocket of his morning coat.

The moment they reached him, Sherlock held out his left hand for her and Daddy placed hers in his.

He beamed at her and his voice was a bit shaky when he greeted her. "Hi, I'm Sherlock."

It took Kyrie all of her effort to not break down and cry. Tears were already leaking from her eyes, no doubt making a spectacular mess of her face. "I know," she managed to whisper.

She wanted to ask what the hell he was doing, even though that was... fairly obvious by now. She just didn't understand why.

Sherlock read the silent question in her eyes and he gently rubbed his thumb over the skin of her clammy hand. "When we got married, years ago, it was a lie. The marriage only served the purpose of keeping my parents safe and you out of the hands of-of a monster. But, when I said 'I do' I was lying because I didn't mean a word of it. The plan had been to divorce the moment the threat was over, remember?"

Kyrie mutely nodded at him.

"But then something happened. I changed, _we_ changed... our entire marriage changed. Now, I suddenly find myself in a situation I never expected to find myself in. Love, happiness... a family. And I realised I don't want to spend another day married to you based on a lie. If we _are_ to be married, then let our foundation be one of truth. Today I want to renew my vow to you because this time..." he swallowed... "This time I will mean it."

"But you hate this," Kyrie whispered, "And-and you said you'd only ever make two vows."

"Well, since I'm renewing the vow I already made to you, technically this is still my first one. I think we're good. And, though I'm not a fan of..." he cleared his throat. "... this... I love _you_. And you were robbed of a real ceremony the first time. I hope you don't mind... I didn't plan a big lavish party after this. Just a small celebration with family and close friends," he admitted.

Kyrie shook her head. "This is perfect."

The smile on his face dropped a bit. "I'm so sorry your parents are not here to... celebrate with you- us."

Great, more tears were rolling down her face. Now she couldn't even see him while he was being so wonderful!

Suddenly the weight of the roses was lifted from her right arm and a handkerchief was placed in her hand so she could dab at her eyes. When she returned it, she gave her rescuer a wobbly smile, not surprised to find Mary smiling back at her, her eyes swimming with tears.

Only then did Kyrie notice that the reverend who had officially married them years ago, was standing in front of them now as well. Clearly the man had no problems at all offering this little service outside of church as the 'official' vows had already been made.

"Are you ready?" Sherlock asked her under his breath.

She smiled up and nodded at him.

The reverend made a lovely speech about enduring love, but in all honesty, Kyrie hardly heard a thing because she only had eyes and attention for one person.

When he was done, the reverend simply asked them a question to reaffirm their vows.

"Sherlock, will you continue to have Kyrie as your wife and continue to love her, comfort her, honour her and be faithful to her, and continue this happy and loving union?"

"I will," Sherlock said solemnly and with those words he suddenly procured a ring from his pocket and showed it to her. It was a small band, beautifully engraved with leaves and in the middle there were two swans, forming a perfect heart with their heads and necks, holding a heart shaped diamond in place. He then turned it just so, so she could see the engraving inside. Their initials S and K, elaborately linked together and the words 'Pari passu'.

"I know you are sometimes worried about your role in my life," he told her quietly. "Whenever you feel doubt, I want you to think of this ring and the words inside. Pari passu. 'With an equal step'. I do not want you behind me. I do not want you in front of me. I want you beside me, as my equal, always."

He gently slid the ring on her finger, right above the family heirloom.

"And you, Kyrie... Will you continue to have Sherlock as your husband and continue to love him, comfort him, honour him and be faithful to him, and continue this happy and loving union?"

"I will," she said, her voice a bit shaky.

Sherlock held out another ring for her. She only then noticed his original wedding band was not on his finger. This was a slightly larger ring than hers with just a hint of the same leaves engraving at the top and bottom rims. The engraving inside was identical to hers. S K Pari passu.

Kyrie took the ring and lovingly slid it on his finger.

"May you know only love and kindness. You may now kiss your bride, again," the reverend told Sherlock.

He did. And this time, he did it properly.


	119. The Story of Albie and Issy

**A/N Thank you, all, for your amazing reviews! I'm so happy the 'wedding do-over' chapter managed to move you guys. More to come, the 'wedding' isn't over yet!**

 **A few reviews pretty much said the same thing so I'm addressing those together.**

 **EllemichelleP, Artemis7448, IronLace, Guest Thank you for your lovely reviews, it's always so great to read how you guys sympathise with Sherlock and Kyrie!**

 **Thewickedprinces Yes, there are still more chapters to come. I guess 4? I'm not entirely sure. We haven't reached the end yet though!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 So good to know we are still on the same page about what they deserve and what they should get. I tried to make the chapter into a little surprise, but, I guess it was pretty obvious from the start.**

 **Purplestan Glad you like me adding their first words. I thought it was a nice little throwback to how they first met and Sherlock does seem fond of throwbacks for some reason!**

 **DreamonAlina I'm glad the chapter got you so excited. I was hoping it would be more of a surprise, but I guess the boxes and their contents were a bit too obvious. Glad you still enjoyed it so much!**

 **Jane S. Gold Yes I absolutely enjoy the baby names discussion and you are being very original! Great idea! Okay, both Sherlock and Kyrie have two favourite composers each, though in through, all composers have created pieces that absolutely love. If they'd have to choose however, Sherlock's first favourite composer shouldn't come as too much of a surprise... That would be Niccolò** _ **Paganini. His second favourite composer (my Sherlock's at least) is**_ **Charles Camille** _ **Saint**_ **-** _ **Saëns. Kyrie's favourites are less obscure... Beethoven and Tchaikovsky.**_

 _ **SherrBabe Thank you for leaving me a review. It's very challenging to write Sherlock falling in love and being in a relationship, so it's always a pleasure to know that readers like the way I handle it.**_

 _ **Companion Teresa Sherlock will always be Sherlock and there will always be something new for him to learn about being in a relationship. But he's making wonderful progress and Kyrie fully agrees with you!**_

 _ **Okay, on with the new chapter. Enjoy and don't forget to leave me a review! I appreciate them all and they keep me motivated to add more before the final epilogue!**_

 _SSS_

After the small ceremony, Sherlock addressed the people present and thanked them for attending.

"You all know me and what kind of person I am. So, without turning this into an even more emotional spectacle, let's just head to the Sheridan Suite. Mycroft was adamant about hiring the catering, so, if you don't like the food, go complain to him."

This elicited a few laughs all around. Sherlock, visibly anxious to get on with it, marched over to the doors until John whistled him back. "Oi, aren't you forgetting something? Or rather... someone?"

Several people snorted with laughter when Sherlock rigidly turned around. He grimaced a bit awkwardly when he strode back and offered Kyrie his arm. Kyrie felt sorry for him. In his attempt to avoid embarrassment and emotional outbursts, he'd embarrassed himself by leaving her standing. She was afraid he now felt sorry for having decided on this event.

"Are you okay?" she softly whispered to him as they made their way to the Sheridan suite. She could tell he was not feeling comfortable by the rigid set of his jaw and the belligerent thrust of his chin. The moment he heard her question his features softened a bit.

"Ask me again when were are alone in our Junior Suite," he whispered back.

Kyrie worried her lip. He'd hired a room here as well? She'd not exactly spent a lot of time choosing lingerie. Meaning, she was wearing something more practical than alluring.

Of course, Sherlock instantly seemed to pick up on her worries.

"Don't worry," he whispered in her ear as he helped her sit down at the large table. "You won't be wearing clothes tonight anyway."

Her mouth instantly ran dry and a spark of desire ignited within her. She glared at Sherlock who grinned wickedly at her. Spiteful little git. He seemed hell bent on making her suffer as much as he was. Hm, having to endure well-wishes and some emotional outbursts versus wanting to rip the clothes from his body and taste and lick him everywhere right that instant. Seemed like she had the rough end of the deal.

It seemed he wasn't done with teasing her as he kept 'accidentally' touching her when they were seated. In the end, she gave him a pleading look. "Please, don't," she asked him softly. He was very well aware that the pregnancy hormones had kicked her libido into overdrive. She didn't want to spend this evening lusting after her husband when she should be enjoying this moment that would never come back.

He instantly looked contrite and he pulled back his hand from her leg. He gently took her left hand, raised it to his lips and placed a tender kiss on her knuckles. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. Her annoyance dissipated, especially because the look in his eyes betrayed his own thoughts.

She wasn't the only one with _love_ on her mind.

In an attempt to diminish the electric current that seemed to flow between them, Sherlock admitted he had no idea what Mycroft had planned for them in terms of food. Kyrie's eyes drifted to his lips and groaned in dismay. She just knew that every little thing he'd do or say this evening, would be sexual to her. This was going to be one long evening!

Thankfully, the caterer Mycroft had hired entered the suite and asked for attention.

"This evening, my staff and I are pleased to serve you. For the appetizer you have the choice of smoked salmon with goat cheese, courgette and a lemon pepper mayonnaise, or silverside veal with tuna mayonnaise. One of my staff will go around the table to take your choice. Bon appetit."

Kyrie was immensely grateful for the distraction! As usual, they both took a different appetizer so they could taste and steal off each other's plates. Kyrie picked the salmon and Sherlock decided on the silverside veal. She had to give it to Mycroft... he had excellent taste! The food was absolutely delicious, even Sherlock reluctantly admitted to that.

For the entrée they could choose between prime rib served with green asparagus and sage butter, or turbot with a creamy mustard sauce. The fish was cooked to perfection and Kyrie made appreciative sounds when the fish just seemed to melt away in her mouth. Kyrie didn't taste the prime rib, keeping the 'beware red meat during pregnancy' at heart, but of course Sherlock did steal a bit of turbot. He agreed it was delectable but he seemed more than content with the prime rib.

Dessert was a bit of a surprise, a one tier wedding cake that looked awfully familiar to Kyrie and it instantly brought tears to her eyes yet again. It was the same cake that Sherlock had bought to celebrate his birthday with her, only larger. Considering her estimated due date, Kyrie was fairly certain that the evening of his birthday was when she'd conceived.

Sherlock requested the cake to just be cut and served. Kyrie wasn't surprised and she certainly didn't mind. She figured that, after a day like this, 'cutting the cake' was a bit too much for him. She could already see the guarded look return in his eyes as he distanced himself from the entire affair and became a bit quiet.

Knowing his guards would drop once they were alone again, Kyrie paid it little attention. She really wanted to enjoy the cake and she did, but after the last scrumptious bite big fat tears were rolling down her cheeks. Kyrie was horrified and she discreetly tried to wipe them away, but she couldn't stop them.

Her hand trembled a bit as she held it to her cheek. She knew she was about to fall apart and make a right spectacle of herself; breaking down and crying at her own wedding... Well, wedding 'do over'. The entire day had been absolutely wonderful and downright overwhelming and now she was no longer in control of her emotions.

She lowered her gaze out of fear someone would notice if she kept looking around. She definitely did not want to alarm Sherlock who had gone through such lengths to make this day come about!

Mummy Holmes suddenly appeared next to her and took the entire situation out of her hands.

"Idiot boy!" she hissed at her youngest son, causing him to look up startled. "Can't you see Kyrie is exhausted and overwrought?"

"Over- What?" Sherlock turned round in his seat and his eyes widened when they fell on Kyrie. "What-what's going on?" he asked, lowering his voice.

"You're not paying attention to your wife! That's what's going on!" Mummy bristled at him.

"But-but..."

"I warned you not to just spring this on her. I know you wanted to surprise her and you are a dear, sweet boy, but look at her!"

Straight cold facts, those were comforting for him. Emotions were, well, emotional and also unpredictable, and he usually – gladly – let Kyrie deal with those. Over-emotional client? BLAM Kyrie would hand them tea and cookies and offer them soothing words after which Sherlock could take over again.

Now he seemed to be at a loss now it was Kyrie who was over-emotional, and he was yet to reach a consensus on how to handle this current situation.

Since it was such a small party, everyone was seated at the same large table and they all noticed that something was amiss. The room fell quiet and all eyes were on Kyrie.

When he spoke, he did so softly and deliberately. "Can you take Kyrie to the room I've booked for us? I think it's time to make the announcement. After that, people can finish their cake. I will remain here for that and then join Kyrie. People will understand." He discreetly handed Mummy the card key to their room.

Mummy nodded at him and, feeling very silly and embarrassed, Kyrie allowed herself to be escorted away while feeling the eyes of their guests burn in her back.

Just before she left the suite with her mother-in-law, she heard Sherlock address their friends and family with his usual tone of voice, aloof and reserved... "This is just a simple celebration with a small gathering of family and friends, so I will not make this too long or formal. I just want to thank you all, also on behalf of my wife, for celebrating with us. There is, however, one more reason for us to celebrate and..."

Kyrie couldn't hear the rest. She ducked her head as they made their way through the hotel. When she – at last – stumbled inside the room, she instantly spotted a double sofa and curled herself up in the space of a single cushion. Mummy soon joined her.

The tears had stopped flowing but the feelings of embarrassment remained. "I feel like such a silly cow," she muttered.

"Nonsense!" Mummy bristled at her. "Your hormones are all over the place and then Sherlock springs a surprise wedding on you." She tutted a little. "No sense of timing that boy. I think I should be grateful he didn't plan this when you were further along. This could have resulted in a surprise birth as well otherwise!"

Kyrie could feel a faint smile tugging at her lips. "He meant well though. I never imagined he'd organise something like this."

"Of course he meant well, he always does! I'm glad he has you now to show him the way." She shook her head. "I've often wondered about him. Worried..."

Her face suddenly turned sad and she stared ahead of herself, a contemplative look in her eyes. "Are you happy, sweetness?" she asked softly and raised enquiring eyes at her. "With my son? Are you, really?"

Kyrie blinked at her, not understanding where this was coming from. "Of course, Mummy. You-you know I am! Why do you ask?"

"Oh..." she sighed, looking away. "I'm afraid I've not been entirely honest with you. I've been a silly old thing. I-I meant well – and now you know where he gets _that_ from – but, there _were_ other options way back then... besides you having to marry Sherlock."

It was as if her mind blanked over; a thick mist rolled in and covered every wayward thought. All she could do, was stare at Mummy with an uncomprehending look.

"We could have found a different way to keep you safe from the clutches of that-that _monster_! Just... it had been years since we'd last seen you and you'd grown into such a lovely young thing."

Tears started to pool in Mummy's eyes. "I saw so much of your parents in you. Your father's heart, your mother's quiet steadfastness. And I told Daddy, I did... I told him 'She will make some man, some lucky man, really happy one day'. And it tore at my heart."

She sighed deeply and then gave Kyrie a pointed look. "You do realise that things would have gone... differently, if you and Sherlock had met under 'normal' circumstances?"

Kyrie smiled a bit and nodded her head, thinking back to how he'd been when they first met. "Oh yes," she whispered. "I know."

"When Gerulf made his threats, I saw an opportunity and I grabbed it. My decision then was purely a selfish one. I wish I could say I had your best interest at heart that day, but I didn't. If you were to make someone really happy one day, I wanted that man to be my headstrong son... a son who seemed hell bent on spending his life alone, unloved."

The two women sat silent for a bit. Kyrie's mind was reeling with the implication... A different choice. What would her life had been like if Mummy Holmes had made a less selfish decision? One that would have kept her safe and did not require a fake marriage? But, her life was so full now, she couldn't even bear to think about her life being any different than it was now.

"So, you see... For my son this really couldn't have turned out any better. You did not just carve yourself a place in his heart, you _became_ his heart! And now, I find myself worrying. Would you have chosen a different path, if I'd allowed you the chance? Would it have been a better path for you?"

"I don't know, Mummy," Kyrie said honestly. "And I don't care." She leaned over and kissed her mother-in-law on the cheek. "Thank you, for being selfish that day. Because it's brought me immeasurable happiness and joy."

"Oh!" Mummy whispered; she then pulled Kyrie in for a hug. "After all of the tragedy and darkness our family has known, it's hard to believe how different things are now. My daughter, though she'll never be free, is alive, and now... now there's even a grandchild on the way!"

They both looked up when the door to the room opened. Sherlock stepped inside, tucking the second card key in his pocket. He stopped dead in his tracks when he took in the tear streaked faces of his mother and wife. He paled and his eyes instantly dropped to the level of Kyrie's belly.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice a bit rough.

It then hit her... his pregnant wife and his mother clutching at each other for dear life, bawling their eyes out... For once he'd made a wrong deduction.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," she said with a warm smile. "The baby is fine too. Your mother and I just had a little chat and it became a bit emotional. I'm pregnant, my emotions are all over the place so that makes me allowed to cry at any given time."

The moment she said they were both fine, the tension visibly left Sherlock's face and shoulders. He gave her a tired little smile. "Good." He then turned his gaze to his mother. "Thank you, for looking after her. I can take it from here now."

Kyrie ducked her head to hide her smile at his thinly veiled order.

At first Mummy looked ready to explode for being dismissed like that, but then seemed to think the better of it. She gave them both a knowing little smile. "Of course you can." She gave Kyrie a kiss on her cheek and lightly patted Sherlock's when she walked past him.

She opened the door but turned around one last time before she left. "I hope you actually get to enjoy the _honeymoon_ this time around."

Kyrie giggled when Mummy was so obliquely referring to their wedding night.

"Good night, mother!" Sherlock told her before quickly kicking the door closed behind her. He then briefly scanned the room. "Hmm, bit purple," he said with a slight frown, looking at the colour of the sofa, the armchair and the matching cushions on the bed. "Not to too bad, I suppose."

He marched over to the interior lit wardrobe and shed his gorgeous jacket. He plopped down on the bed, removed his shoes and settled himself on the bed with his back against the headboard, cushions propped behind him. He patted the space next to him. "Join me."

Kyrie smiled at him and quietly rose to her feet. She narrowed her eyes when she was right next to the bed, trying to figure out how to climb on it without making a spectacle of herself.

"You can always take it off, you know. Your dress." His eyes were shooting green sparks at her.

"Behave!" she muttered before hiking up the dress far enough so she could climb onto the bed. With a content sigh she curled up next to him. Alone together at last!

Sherlock instantly wrapped his left arm around her shoulders to pull her even closer. "What happened?"

Kyrie sighed and traced a finger along the smooth fabric of his waistcoat. "Nothing really. It was just silly. Everything was just so wonderful, but, it kind of snuck up on me... the fact that my parents were not there. And they won't be here either when..." She stopped talking, not wanting to succumb again to those feelings of sadness. Not tonight.

"It didn't bother you before because when we got married, neither of us meant it when we pledged ourselves to each other. But today..."

"... today it was real and my parents..."

"... were not there to witness it. I'm sorry, Kyrie. I never thought of that. I only wanted to make you happy."

"You do! And today was lovely. Never thought you'd actually do something like that."

He chuckled a bit. "I guess I managed to surprise us both then."

She laughed with him and she felt the sadness ebb away from her body. "How did it go, downstairs?"

"Lots of handshaking, smiles and well-wishes. I-I felt sorry for Molly though. Watching us renew our vows must have been hard for her, but, it felt wrong to not invite her for that reason. Then the surprise announcement..."

"Things like that take time, I guess," Kyrie said softly. "Unrequited love, it's the worst kind there is."

"How would you know?" Sherlock furrowed his brows at her, probably wondering about the men she might have loved before him. Kyrie looked up at him. "Because I loved you long before you loved me back. And it wasn't easy."

"You forget so easily," Sherlock murmured at her.

"What?"

"What I told you, the night I came back from Sherrinford... I was certain you were going to leave me because you warned me I was all out of chances. I told you I have loved you for a long time."

Kyrie propped herself up on one elbow. "But _you_ didn't know, you fought against it. I _did_ know I loved you."

"Does it matter?" he asked her quietly, "Is it important who loved whom first?"

"Not at all, I'm just trying to tell you it wasn't easy... loving you and being certain you'd never love me back. I can sympathise with Molly. You are not easy to forget."

Sherlock reached out for her and pulled her on top of his body so she was straddling him. Kyrie gasped at the sudden change of position. "Not easy?" he asked.

The air around them shimmered with heat. "Impossible," she whispered, amending her words.

"Good," he whispered back. He reached up and brought her face to his for a kiss as he pulled the ribbons of her dress loose...

SSS

Sherlock had more than made up for the wedding night they never really had. He'd made love to Kyrie with a fierce tenderness and free abandon he'd only recently started to show. His softly uttered whispers of how much he loved her made everything beyond perfect.

"What were your parents like?" Sherlock asked her when they were enjoying a languid post-coital embrace. He was stroking the skin on her back while Kyrie was drawing aimless circles on his chest with her fingers. "I don't even know their names."

Kyrie pressed a kiss just below his nipple. "My father's name was Albert, but most people called him Bertie. Not your parents though; they called him Albie. He was an architect. He had artistic hands. I used to love watching him sketch. He was kind, honest... maybe a bit impatient. And he could play piano. I loved when he played the piano."

"And your mother?"

Kyrie snickered. "Isolda. She always hated that name and always introduced herself as Isa, but your mother called her Issy. Not sure if she actually preferred that, I never heard her comment about it. She used to be a teacher, before I was born. Third grade class. One day she took the children on a school trip to a music shop. The owner crafted and restored violins mostly. He had a large store and his assistants would tend to customers searching for other instruments while he concentrated on the strings. That day my father was looking for a new pianoforte and when my mother walked in with the children, he was playing on a Beckstein. She instantly fell for him..."

"And your father?" Sherlock urged her on. Kyrie smiled. "He hardly even recalled that first meeting. Needless to say, he was less impressed with her than she was with him."

"I sense a recurring theme," Sherlock told her wryly.

She laughed at him. "I guess I take after my mum in that regard. We both fell for men we considered unattainable."

"How did they end up together then? I doubt it was because of a conniving mother scheming to get her youngest son to get married already."

Kyrie giggled at his words and loved this tranquil moment with him. He looked perfectly content and at ease; the worry lines smoothed away completely. "Nothing of the sort. My mother tried to put him out of her mind, thinking a chance encounter like that could never lead to anything. She couldn't resist though; she kept going back to the music shop, each time hoping – in vein of course – she'd see him again. Instead of finding love, she found friendship with the music shop owner."

"And your father?"

"Well, one day when my mother visited the old man on a Saturday, there was this brand new beautiful Bechstein pianoforte. His assistant, an avid piano player, was giving it a last check before the new owner would arrive. He played and my mother accompanied him with her voice.

"She sang as well?"

Kyrie smiled. "Yes. And my father heard her sing. _He_ was the new owner of the Bechstein and I guess he walked in at the exact right moment."

Sherlock was quiet for a while, the worry lines returned.

"What is it?" Kyrie asked him.

He sighed deeply. "Just regretting my decisions at the moment. My parents always wanted me to meet yours, and ultimately – I guess – you. It was easy to deduce the reason behind their wish to meet your parents, so I always refused. If I hadn't, at least I would have had the pleasure to meet them. Even _if_ they wouldn't have liked me a whole lot. Neither would you have, for that matter."

"I _didn't_ like you a whole lot when we met."

He grinned. "See?"

Sherlock then furrowed his brows. "How about 'Albert' if we get a son? To honour your father?"

Kyrie shook her head. "No. Trust me, my dad would not have wanted me to name our son after him. Like mum, he always detested his name."

"Maybe the name of a grandfather you loved?"

"I guess Dominic wouldn't be too bad, but Horton? No, thank you!"

Sherlock laughed. "I don't know, Horton could work. It's better than Hamish."

"Poor John!" Kyrie then thought for a moment. "If we do get a son, how would you feel about naming him after John? He's your best friend after all."

"We are not naming our son 'John'."

"Well, our son or daughter could have been conceived like... right in front of his chair..."

"Let's not make him privy of that bit of information. Anyway, not 'John' and we've already settled on a girl's name so not Joanna or Joanie either."

"Hmm, I'll think of something."

"You've got free reign," Sherlock said magnanimously.

"As long as it's not John."

He grinned. "Exactly."

"Or Hamish."

"Not that."

"Dudley?"

"Not that either."

"Irving?"

"No."

"Oswald?"

"Now you are just being ridiculous."

"I thought I had free reign?"

He smirked at her. "You have, as long as I agree to the name."

She laughed out loud, a sound he quickly captured with a kiss.


	120. Surprise!

**A/N**

 **Purplestan Sorry, it's really not going to be twins. I already know what kind of person their child will be. Complete with own personality and identity and all. It's not like I just make things up as I go. They present themselves to me and I just write them. If that makes any sense.**

 **Jane S. Gold I'm glad you liked the story of Kyrie's parents. They deserved a little lime light. And don't worry about the names. I did add a third one. It was supposed to be just two, but uhm... yeah. Sometimes I make little changes along the way.**

 **DreamonAlina I love them both to bits. I was a bit struggling with the chapter after this one, but then I saw it all happen... I think in about one or two chapters you get to meet Baby Holmes!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 'get that dig'? Sorry, I'm not sure what you mean with that. Sherlock certainly still has his limitations. They will actually get into a bit of a fight. Though it also has to do with Kyrie's hormones and emotions being all over the place.**

 **Thewickedprinces Also sent you a PM, but glad that you liked the background story of Kyrie's parents.**

 **Okay, I guess you all want to know if they'll be having a boy or a girl? You find out this chapter! Enjoy!**

SSS

Kyrie could feel her heart hammering in her chest and her throat was too dry to swallow. She was 18 weeks pregnant, had a notable baby bump, and was about to have her second ultrasound.

Sherlock hadn't been there for the first one and she had called Mary in a state of panic when he, of course, wouldn't answer his damn phone. In the end, her best friend had shown up, saying she didn't want Kyrie to have her first echo all by herself. There wasn't a whole lot she could see back then. Just a little bean with the beginnings of tiny limbs and something that rapidly fluttered up and down... a beating little heart. That first echo ultrasound determined her due date, just like Sherlock had predicted, at the end of September. The 29th. Everything had looked to be in order so an appointment for a second ultrasound was made.

Kyrie smiled at the memory. It now made sense why Sherlock had been so very unavailable to her in those weeks. He'd been planning their secret second wedding! Though she'd long forgiven him for missing the first ultrasound, she'd been near hysteric that day. And now they were both in the London Medical Centre. Ready for the second ultrasound. Well... ready?

Thankfully the room did not have an overbearing 'hospital' vibe. The sonographer was a friendly looking, stout woman with ginger hair who introduced herself as Claire. Claire darkened the room and invited Kyrie to lie down on the couch. She gave Sherlock a nervous look. It was ridiculous, she knew, it wasn't like he'd never seen her naked and they hadn't gotten to the point of expecting a baby by keeping their clothes on.

Kyrie prudishly raised her top and shimmied down her skirt to her hips. When the sonographer pulled the skirt even further down to right above her pubic bone, she could feel her cheeks flush with embarrassment. If Claire noticed her distress, she didn't comment about it.

Sherlock remained quiet. He seemed so out of place in the room. Probably because this was as new to him as it was to her. He simply took Kyrie's hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze, reminding her he was there for her and there was no reason for her to feel uncomfortable.

"Right then, Mrs. Holmes," Claire told her as she tucked a tissue paper around her clothes to protect it from the ultrasound gel. "Remember, this will feel a bit cold, okay?"

Kyrie nodded silently and braced herself. When the cool gel came in contact with her skin, it wasn't nearly as cold as she remembered and she instantly relaxed.

Claire turned the screen so both Sherlock and Kyrie could clearly see what was happening. She then passed the probe over Kyrie's gel-slicked skin. At first they heard nothing but a whooshing sound as the probe sent out the ultrasound waves and picked up the echo when they bounced back.

Kyrie winced a bit when Claire applied a bit of pressure to get the best view. And suddenly she was looking at a baby on the screen. Their baby. He or she no longer looked like a little bean. There was a clear, audible, even visible heartbeat! Strong and even.

She was glad that Claire busied herself with all sorts of measurements first because all Kyrie could do was stare at the screen, not entirely comprehending that the little baby she was seeing there, was inside of her. A product of love.

First the head circumference was measured and the length of the larger bones. Claire said the measurements confirmed she was in fact 18 weeks along. Due date was confirmed... September 29th. All fingers and toes were accounted for, the head size was good, brain developed as expected, no signs of spinus bifida aperta.

She checked more things, like the amount of amniotic fluid and the position of the placenta. Claire looked at the visible organs and, for as far as it was possible to determine, she found no anomalies. She did warn that not all anomalies could be detected through ultrasound imaging, but Kyrie didn't mind. That little baby was theirs and, anomalies or not, it would be welcome and loved.

When Kyrie turned her face to smile at Sherlock, the look on his face sent the tears she'd been trying to hold back, streaming from her eyes. Soon, all she could see was a vague blur. Kyrie would never forget that look of wonder on his face. Eyes wide open, lips parted just slightly, nostrils flaring like those of a nervous foal, his Adam's apple moving up and down as he swallowed convulsively. He gripped her hand tightly.

"Baby is very quiet, but that could be because baby is tired or sleeping. It would have been more fun to see the little one kicking around. Oh, will you look at that," Claire said as she adjusted the image.

Kyrie returned her eyes to the screen and clasped a hand in front of her mouth as she started the cry in earnest. The wee little one had the palms of tiny little hands pressed together, fingertips resting against the mouth. The bent little legs prevented a guess about the sex. Not that Kyrie needed to guess; she instantly knew.

"That's you!" Kyrie whispered.

Claire quickly caught on and instantly saved the image for them.

Kyrie then started to laugh and soon she couldn't stop. "Mini-Sherlock!"

"If you'd like, I can check babies bottom side. That is... if you want to know..."

"Not much point," Kyrie said instantly. "I'm carrying his son. Just look at the screen! He's already a carbon copy of his dad!"

"If you are so certain, then not much harm in checking to make sure?" Claires ventured.

Kyrie looked at Sherlock and she saw the longing in his eyes. She smiled and nodded. "Okay."

Claire moved the probe around to the area between the baby's legs where the presence of descended testicles, a scrotum and a little penis confirmed it. They were having a son!

SSS

There was no point at all in giving his parents the news. Within fifteen minutes after the ultrasound, they were already calling Sherlock. Courtesy of Mycroft no doubt. He accepted the call, then simply put the phone next to him as he continued to kiss Kyrie in the back seat of the taxi that was driving them home.

She giggled when she heard Mummy and Daddy talking excitedly, completely oblivious there was no one on the other end of the line paying attention to them.

When they reached Baker Street, Sherlock surprised her with his 'urgency'. Whether he'd gotten himself fired up because they were having a son; or because he'd seen the first glimpse of their child; or because Kyrie had been adamant their son would wholly take after him, she wasn't sure. All she knew was, once they set foot in their home, Sherlock only had one thing on his mind...

He simply lifted her from her feet, carried her up the stairs and made a beeline for their bedroom. Inside he kicked the door closed and his mouth instantly fastened on hers while his hands tore at his clothes. His Belstaff Milford landed in a heap on the floor, quickly joined by his jacket. He didn't bother with his shirt buttons; he just undid the top few and pulled his shirt over his head and yanked his hands through his sleeves so violently that the ripped them.

There was just a brief loss of contact when he pulled his shirt over his head before his mouth hungrily descended on hers again. He was even less patient when ridding his wife of her clothes. Kyrie gasped when he tore her blouse open, sending buttons flying. Thankfully her skirt was an elastic one so it was easily pulled down, otherwise that too would have perished at his impatient hands.

When they finally tumbled onto the bed, he wasted no time. In one smooth move he hooked her leg around his waist and slid home. The sensation forced a long retched moan from his throat right before he set an impossible pace that Kyrie just couldn't keep up with. She softly urged him to slow down.

"I'm sorry," he whispered through ragged breaths, his voice desperate. "I can't – I need..."

He groaned, threw back his head, eyes rolling back in their sockets... and he came. His body shuddered as he quietly rode out the waves of his orgasm before he collapsed on top of her and remained still.

Kyrie bit her lip to keep from laughing. He'd not even lasted five minutes.

Sherlock was less amused however. The moment his senses returned to him, he stiffened in her arms.

"Oh God!" he exclaimed and tried to struggle away from her. Kyrie prevented him by keeping her arms and legs firmly locked around him.

"Don't hide from me," she pleaded. "It's okay."

"No," he countered, "This was not okay. Using your body for my own pleasure is never okay. I could have hurt you, or the baby!"

"You didn't," she assured him. "I enjoyed every moment. I just couldn't keep up."

He tried to struggle away again. "But..."

"Please, don't leave me," Kyrie whispered, knowing he'd shut his emotional side down if she'd let him.

"I'm right here," he replied, furrowing his brows in confusion.

"You think that what just happened is bad thing, so you want to retreat into yourself, throwing up all of your guards in the process. That would leave me alone and _that_ would hurt me. Do you understand that?"

He blinked at her a few times, processing her words. "I'd never want that."

"I know. That's why I'm telling you."

"I don't know how to..."

"Shh," Kyrie whispered near his ear and gently bit his earlobe. She could still feel desire coursing through her veins. "Did you enjoy it?" she asked him seductively.

His breath hitched. "It shouldn't be..."

She cut him off again and whispered, "I enjoyed it."

He slowly turned his head and raised his eyes to meet hers. She knew he'd see nothing but truth in there. She could see that it finally clicked in his head. The lover's truth. As long as it was enjoyable to both, there was no wrong way in lovemaking.

Instead of retreating into himself, Sherlock gave her his undivided attention and used his fingers and mouth to drive her to new heights until the rest of his body was ready to join the party as well again.

A long time later, both on their backs, chests heaving, they turned their faces to each other and started laughing between laboured breaths.

"That was..." Sherlock began.

"... amazing beyond words?" Kyrie suggested.

He chuckled. "Something like that." He then propped himself up on one elbow and lovingly stroked her protruding belly and placed a kiss on it. "Are you sure I didn't...?" he asked softly.

"I'm sure..."

She gasped when she suddenly felt movement in her belly.

Sherlock's head shot up and he gave her an intent look. "What is it?"

"I-I felt him!"

His lips parted and he blinked at her, then slowly lowered his head to look at her belly where his hand was still resting. "Are you sure?"

"Yes! I've... I've felt little flutterings before but I wasn't sure if that was really the baby or not. I'm sure now!"

His face split in a grin and he lowered himself to shower her belly with tiny little kisses, softly murmuring between them. She heard him say 'little one' and something of an apology for being 'a bit rough with mummy'.

Kyrie grinned. "You weren't rough, you were fast. There's a difference."

Sherlock glared at her and Kyrie just laughed at him. He jumped to his feet, picked up the remnants of his shirt and Kyrie's blouse and held them up. "These are done for, better get them replaced." He tossed them onto the bed and opened the wardrobe to lay out clean clothes for himself. He then pulled on his burgundy dressing gown and briefly disappeared into Kyrie's walk-in closet to retrieve a dress for her.

"I have no idea which clothes still fit you. This one looks elastic enough?" He held up a simple peacock dress. Kyrie smiled and nodded at him.

"Yes, that one fits. I moved all skirts and dresses I can no longer wear to the back. Everything else in the front is, for now, giving and elastic enough. I may have to shop for maternity clothes soon though."

Sherlock laid out the dress for her. "Why not make it a day out with Mary? Women like to shop in herds don't they? Or pairs at least, in your case."

Kyrie giggled at him. "Sure, Sherlock. We like to shop in herds. Honestly, the things you say sometimes..."

He merely grinned and held out his hand for her. Kyrie gave him a curious look. "Shower," he simply said. "We've got some things to discuss, I'm meeting up with Lestrade and it's impractical to shout from the bathroom."

While Kyrie laid out the rest of her clothes, Sherlock started to run the water for them. Soon he stood pressed right behind her, as there wasn't a whole lot of room, gently washing his hair as Kyrie's washed hers.

"We have little choice," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the water. "We'll have to turn John's old bedroom into the nursery. We should be fine for now, but we may have to consider moving to a more suitable place soon. Just thinking ahead and being practical. Something near Baker Street would be most ideal because I want to keep this place to practice business."

"What happened to our little cottage in Sussex, where you get to keep bees?" Kyrie quipped.

"That's for when we are old and grey. A place for our children to visit us."

Kyrie choked up and her tear ducts were pushing out big fat tears again. She couldn't help herself. The ease with which he spoke of children, plural, it proved once more how invested he really was in their relationship... in their future together.

She quickly wiped her tears away, knowing he was aware she was crying anyway.

He gently started to lather her skin with her shower foam and his hands lingered on her belly.

"I hope that's still what you want," he whispered.

"Yes," she managed to say. "More than anything."

He hugged her close to him and allowed the water to cascade down on them. They were silent for a bit, but it didn't last long. Sherlock wasn't done yet.

"So, cottage with bees in Sussex when I retire, but, before we get to that, we need a home where we can raise our children. I was thinking, first priority of course is to make sure that Baker Street is ready and prepared for the little one. In the meantime, I will look for a suitable place and acquire it if we are both satisfied with it. Then we can take our time in making it our home and move in when we are ready. What do you think?"

Kyrie had to swallow past the lump in her throat. She turned in his arms and looked up at him, tears still rolling down her cheeks. "I think you are the most wonderful man in the world. I never thought we would ever get to be like this and I... love you."

He blinked at her and he rolled his jaw. "Though I appreciate the sentiment, I love you too – of course – it's hardly the subject we were discussing. Keep with it, please. Now, thoughts on what I just said? Good? Bit not good? Horrible?"

Kyrie laughed and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Perfect," she said.

"Don't get all cuddly now, I have to hurry," he said, all business like again. He turned off the water and made sure Kyrie was safe on her feet and wrapped in a fluffy towel before he quickly dried and dressed himself.

"You do realise that, when I said I'd be looking for a suitable place, I actually meant Anthea will do this for us and we look at the houses we like?"

She grinned at him. "I had a feeling, yes."

He turned around and then turned round back again. "Oh, Mummy insists we use the cradle that Mycroft and me used to lay in. Is that okay with you?"

"That would be perfect!"

"Good, if you could call her about it, then I won't have to and you like talking to her anyway. Oh, I'm texting Mary. See if she's up for a bit of shopping. New shirt, maternity clothes... baby... stuff. I'm sure you can handle it. And don't forget to show her the image of the ultrasound! Okay, gotta dash. No need for elaborate dinner, something cold will do." He gave her a quick kiss and then disappeared in a flurry of movement.


	121. From Heaven to Hell

**A/N It's late so just responding to some comments and questions. Guess who will make an appearance next chapter? Still busy writing that, I want it to be good!**

 **Guest I've hinted in my story that Sherlock was already well off before he teamed up with John. By his own admittance, he has several expensive coats and all of his clothes ooze 'luxury' and 'expensive'. He has enough money to sustain a drug habit if he wants, he lives in Central London and always uses a taxi for transportation. To pull all of that of, you need to have money. Then he became famous and after he got rid of Moriarty and even rolled up his network of crime, I'm pretty sure the British government threw obscene amounts of money at him to keep his mouth shut :-)**

 **DreamonAlina You'll meet the youngest Holmes in the next chapter. I just need some juice and motivation to write!**

 **IronLace Thank you! I had a great Mother's Day!**

 **Cypress98 Bit weird for you, I bet, to read this response at the end of the story, when you reviewed an earlier story. I hope you are sticking with this and that you get to read this. Anyway, I hope you loved reading my story as much I have loved writing it!**

 **Jane S. Gold. It's mostly nice reviews that keep me going and prevent me from saying... Screw this, I'm done. I've felt that way a couple of times, especially when I see hundreds of people read my story but only a handful bother to leave a review. So, thanks for always taking the time to review. I really appreciate it!**

 **Sorry guys... things were getting a bit too idyllic. Need to keep you guys on your toes!**

SSS

Mary giggled at Kyrie's satisfied moan when she bit into her honey roasted ham sandwich with English mustard. Kyrie didn't care, this was heaven!

They were both enjoying the 'Traditional Tea for Two' at the Candella Tea room in Kensington, after quite a few hours of shopping.

As Kyrie was the tea 'nut' Mary had relied on her friend to suggest a tea. Something special but not overly fancy. Kyrie suggested she'd try the Lakyrsiew, probably Darjeeling mixed with something else. Bit floral, bit sweet, bit woody. A nice crisp blend but not... overly fancy.

Kyrie had opted for the Chocolate Cherry Chai herself. A nice Ceylon with lots of Indian spices and natural cherry and chocolate flavouring giving the tea a nice 'Mocha' like depth.

Next to their table there were several shopping bags on the floor. One of them contained a few maternity dresses and skirts, another three new shirts for Sherlock and the third one contained the beginnings of collection of baby clothes.

"So, Mable and George are coming over next week to bring the cradle right?"

Kyrie nodded her head and quickly swallowed a mouthful of tea. "Yes, they wouldn't take no for an answer. Sherlock practically begged them to allow the cradle to be picked up. I guess Mummy really wants to see that ultrasound image!"

"Who wouldn't?" Mary grinned. "I still can't believe how much he resembles Sherlock already!"

Kyrie smiled in content, feeling positively like a big fat cat who just got to swallow the canary. "I know! I immediately knew we'd be having a son. I'm telling you, this little one..." Kyrie placed a hand on her swollen belly, "... will follow in his father's footsteps and become the next Consulting Detective. Mark my words!"

"Oh, I will!" Mary said. "And I will make you eat them if Junior decides to become an opera singer. Or... a baker!"

Kyrie nearly choked on her sandwich. "Baker!" She laughed at that. "What?" she then asked when Mary's expression suddenly turned to one of surprise.

"Look who just decided to treat herself here as well?" Mary told her in a conspirational tone.

Discreetly, Kyrie bent over to the side, pretending to search the contents of her shoulder bag, while venturing a glance around. She got up so fast, she nearly hit her head against the table.

"Molly!" she whispered. "Oh, this could get awkward."

"I don't know," Mary said, a contemplative look on her face. "There's something different about her. Let's invite her over."

"No, Mary!" Kyrie hissed, but it was too late.

"Molly!" Mary called out in a chirpy tone. "What a coincidence! Why don't you join us?"

The other woman turned in the direction of Mary's voice, a look of surprise on her face. She smiled the moment she spotted them, looking a bit flustered maybe, but she approached them anyway.

"Oh, hi there! Out for a bit of tea then? Oh, and some shopping I see."

"Yes, we are," Kyrie said pleasantly. "Won't you sit with us?" she then asked, repeating Mary's invitation.

"I-I don't know, I wouldn't want to impose," Molly stammered a bit.

"You wouldn't, we are both inviting you." Mary smiled at her.

"Right. Yes. Of course. In that case..." Molly took the vacant seat on the side of the table.

"So, Molly... You're looking well!" Mary said amiably and she sipped her tea.

"Oh, um... Thank you!" Molly developed a deep blush on her cheeks causing Kyrie and Mary to give each other meaningful looks.

"Why, Molly... Is there something you'd like to tell us? I know that blush."

Molly started to fidget in her seat, looking very uncomfortable.

"Mary's just teasing you, Molly. You don't have to tell a thing if you don't want to." Kyrie kicked at Mary's leg when Mary glared at her.

"It's not that," Molly began. "Just... it's a bit unexpected and... Well, all thanks to Sherlock really."

Kyrie choked on her tea.

Molly jumped in her seat. "Oh, sorry! I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

Kyrie coughed a couple of more times, tears stinging her eyes and she vaguely waved her hand indicating she was fine.

"Now you definitely have to tell us," Mary ordered.

Molly gave her a shy little smile. "Well, a few weeks ago... Right after your 'wedding party' I got this strange call. Apparently Sherlock had given him my information in case he needed a second opinion about the cause of death in a murder. He was investigating one in Redhill but the local pathologist claimed it was a death of natural causes. I travelled over there, we met up and um... I think we like each other."

"Who, Molly?" Mary asked curiously.

"Oh, sorry. Jonathan Creek!"

"Jonathan Creek?" Mary repeated not understanding. "I don't know a Jonathan Creek. But... apparently Kyrie does..."

Kyrie had gently placed her cup of tea down. "Yes, but... I wasn't aware Sherlock knew him!"

Seeing the confused looks on their faces, Kyrie told them how and why she knew Jonathan Creek, telling them he had invented the 'set' that had been used for 'The Elephant in the Room'.

"As far as I know, Jonathan and Sherlock never even met each other."

"Oh, they did!" Molly said, who by now was sipping her own cup of tea and enjoying scones with clotted cream. "Sherlock has travelled down to Sussex to meet up with him. He wanted to see the mill and asked some questions about cottages and the possibility of bee keeping. I wasn't aware you were thinking of moving?"

"Yes, Kyrie... we weren't aware you were thinking of moving!" Mary said with an evil smirk.

Kyrie felt a bit flustered and absolutely confused about what was going on. Was that visit to Jonathan Creek the reason Sherlock came up with the idea to retire in Sussex whenever that day came?

"Actually..." she began, "We _are_ thinking of moving, just not to Sussex. Somewhere near Baker Street so Sherlock can keep using it for business. We... think we should start looking for a home that's better suited for... um... raising children."

"Oh, that's lovely!" Molly exclaimed.

"Children?" Mary asked. "You haven't even had your first one yet!"

"I know... _we_ know... But John's bedroom for a nursery isn't exactly ideal. We're just thinking down the lines."

"Yeah, I guess..." Mary sighed wistfully. "Never even thought about the possibility of things changing like that."

"We'll always have Baker Street, Mary," Kyrie told her with a smile. "And who knows... Little Watson and Little Holmes might still surprise us."

"Ha! Holmes and Watson in Baker Street. The next generation!"

"It wouldn't surprise me one bit!"

Kyrie and Mary giggled. Kyrie then turned her attention back to Molly again. "I think it's great, Molly," she told her truthfully. "Jonathan really is a great guy. And more importantly... a decent guy. I guess he and Kathryn never worked out?"

Molly nodded her head. "I don't know all the details, but he made it sound they both had different expectations.

"I wondered why I didn't see him at our 'wedding do-over'," Kyrie murmured in thought.

"He was invited," Molly explained, "But he didn't want to make things awkward for you; he knew Janine and Kathryn had been invited too."

Kyrie frowned, "I hope they parted friendly."

"They did, somewhat. But, it's never easy isn't it? Breaking up." Molly got a bit of a faraway look in her eyes.

"I guess..." Kyrie offered hesitantly. "But, you _do_ like Jonathan?"

She smiled again. "Yes, I do," she said softly. "Never imagined myself ever, you know, after..." She trailed off for a bit. "I'm sorry if I ever made you feel uncomfortable, or anything."

Kyrie did her best to give her a warm smile, she just wasn't sure how much of a sore point Sherlock still was. She decided to just ask. "Do you still have feelings for him, Molly? I mean..." She worried her lip and felt blood rush to her cheeks. "Was it okay that Sherlock invited you to our second wedding? And now with the baby on the way... I know he'd want you to be included, but I don't want you to unintentionally get hurt either."

Molly gave her a small smile. "I really, _really_ like Jonathan," she said. "Does that mean all of my feelings for Sherlock are gone? I'm not sure. I think a first love, or crush, like that never really goes away entirely. I'll always harbour warm feelings for him. But, that does not mean I cannot be happy for you two. Because I am. I'm quite happy too and I'm..." She quickly wiped away an errand tear and her cheeks flushed with a few red patches. "... really glad Sherlock gave Jonathan my information."

Kyrie could feel the pressure behind her own eyes building as well.

"Good God," Mary muttered. "Sherlock Holmes, Match Maker. What is the world coming to?"

Kyrie started to laugh at that. She then bent to retrieve the thin envelope from her bag. She looked at it and hesitated briefly, before handing it to Molly. "Have a look," she said quietly.

Molly gave her a puzzled look before taking out the contents, a single black and white image... the ultrasound image.

She clasped her hand in front of her mouth to stifle a giggle. "No!" she cried out, "That's... that's him! It's a boy isn't it? It has to be!"

Again, Kyrie felt immense pride surge through her. "Yes, we are having a son!"

"Have you decided on a name yet?" Molly asked her curiously.

"Oh, don't bother!" Mary huffed. "She's not saying a bloody thing! I know, I tried!"

Kyrie grinned at that. "I'm toying with a few names, but I haven't decided yet."

"You?" Molly asked.

Mary snorted laughter. "Yes, Sherlock gave her free reign. _Almost_ free reign that is. If they'd had a girl, they would have named it after his grandmother."

"Oh?"

Figuring it wouldn't hurt to tell them now they were having a son anyway, Kyrie decided to tell them.

"His grandmother's name was Evelina."

"That's a beautiful name!" Molly said and Mary nodded her head in agreement.

"I thought so too and it seemed important to Sherlock, even though he doesn't really let on. Anyway, he said I could decided the name in case we had a son."

Molly handed back the envelope with the image. "I think it's great," she said.

She sounded honest and there was only the slightest hint of sadness in her eyes. She was getting there. Kyrie smiled at her.

"So, Molly," she said with a wink. "Why don't you tell us about your first date with Jonathan?"

Molly bit her lip, then smiled, a sparkle appearing in her eyes...

SSS

She had gone too far. Kyrie realised this when she saw the cold look in his eyes. He turned the full force of his displeasure on her.

"Enough," he spat at her. "I've borne enough of your aberrant mood swings without complaint. I'm done. The last couple of months I have went out of my way to accommodate you. Everything that you wanted, I have done. I'm an addict who's off drugs; I haven't touched a single cigarette and I have stopped taking cases that could be potentially life-threatening." His nostrils flared.

Stunned, Kyrie stumbled back. What was it she had said again that made him erupt like this? God, she scarcely remembered, just that she'd verbally gone after him the moment he unsuspectingly set foot inside the flat. Probably something to do about Sherlock's last minute changes in the nursery she hadn't been aware of.

"I have turned my entire world upside down and I have done it all for you, for us! I am _exhausted_ from living up to your expectations of me, but apparently everything I've done isn't enough. Makes me wonder if _I_ am enough!"

"I'm sorry," Kyrie said, "I didn't mean... You just, make so many decisions without me, I..."

"Don't bother," he said. "You've made yourself perfectly clear. You hate the colour of the nursery, you hate the furniture and you hate the house I've acquired for us."

 _That_ was it... He'd sent her a text earlier that he'd bought a house. A gorgeous, spacious and contemporary five bedroom period townhouse with a spacious roof terras. It was absolutely perfect. The townhouse was situated in a fantastic location... right in the heart of Marylebone in a very quiet street, yet moments from the High Street. But, most importantly, it was also just moments away from Baker Street.

And Kyrie had ripped him a new one, the only reason being that he'd had to make the quick decision without her, because an offer had already been made.

When Kyrie heard the living door being slammed shut, she blinked her eyes and she realised he'd left. As quickly as her huge belly allowed, Kyrie waddled after him and she descended the stairs. When the outer door slammed shut as well, Kyrie gripped the bannister. What the hell had she done?

The months following that delightful afternoon with Mary and Molly, had passed in a bit of a blur. Most of the time things had been just wonderful, but other times...

Sherlock was very excitable and seemed high pretty much every day. A natural high he assured her. He was exhausting and Kyrie couldn't keep up. He printed out detailed plans of how a 'normal' pregnancy should progress and frowned when things developed differently.

He planned everything to the tiniest detail and, to be honest, Kyrie felt a bit robbed of some of the decisions she felt she should have had a voice in. Sherlock just steam rolled ahead however, leaving Kyrie on edge. Sherlock even printed a healthy pregnancy diet plan!

John's bedroom was beautifully renovated and turned into a nursery. The walls were painted in a soft sea foam colour and all of the furniture that had been bought was practical, amazing and luxurious. And Kyrie hadn't had a single say; Sherlock had done it all without her.

His old cradle was featuring prominently in the room; a beautifully carved oak rocking cradle. Sherlock had rolled his eyes seeing it, but Kyrie loved it.

In the evenings, when Sherlock would finally wind down, Kyrie felt she could finally relax and, she had to admit, he could be pretty amazing then. He'd rub her belly with oil to keep the skin of her ever expanding belly supple. Showers were traded for long languid bath sessions. Sometimes he'd even join her, though she knew he did not find it very comfortable.

Five months pregnant, Kyrie could clearly feel their baby's movement, especially at night when they lay in bed. A few weeks later, she smiled at the surprise on Sherlock's face when their son kicked at him right underneath where his hand rested.

As Kyrie's belly grew larger, the days grew warmer. Where ever she went, her pregnant belly led the way and she felt like a ship sailing down the streets.

When she was eight months pregnant, Baker Street was all ready for the arrival of the little one. And Kyrie didn't feel happy, because Sherlock had planned everything to a T, down to which hospital she would give birth in, all without her.

Though Kyrie knew he was just trying to be involved and be a 'considerate' husband, she often felt left behind. That, coupled with pregnancy hormones, led to her arguing about things she'd never argued about before. And that had started to grate on Sherlock's nerves.

It had all culminated in that horrible fight just now. She grimaced when her abdomen tightened again and she pressed her hand in the low of her back to ease the nagging pain that had plagued her throughout the day.

Indecisively, she lingered on the steps, thinking how she could apologise to him when he was trying so hard. Maybe a bit too hard, but, all in all he'd been absolutely wonderful every step of the way while she had been absolutely monstrous!

She gasped when a huge rush of fluid came gushing from between her legs. "Oh God!" she whispered. When her abdomen tightened painfully again, she could no longer ignore or deny it. She was in labour... and Sherlock had just stormed out!

Determined, Kyrie carefully turned around and waddled back up the stairs, hanging on to the bannisters for dear life out of fear she'd slip and fall. She heaved a sigh of relief when she was back into the living room. Now... where had she put her phone? Kyrie spotted it on the kitchen table, where she'd slammed it down after shoving it in Sherlock face showing him the offending pictures of their new house.

She swallowed a lump away when her screen activated on the picture of the room Sherlock had imagined to be for their son. Soon, tears started rolling down her cheeks. This was not how she'd imagined giving birth! Instead of Sherlock being here with her, soothing her and supporting her, she'd driven him away with her foul mood and now she was all alone!

Sniffing a bit, Kyrie quickly speed-dialled his number... and paled when she heard his phone chirp from the kitchen counter... where he had slammed it down in anger during their fight.

She gasped and, her hand flying to her breast, fell back two paces. Now what should she do? Mary! She had to call Mary. Her fingers trembling, Kyrie pressed the speed-dial for Mary... and nearly feinted hearing her chirpy voice. "I'm not here right now and sadly can't take your call. Too busy being awesome. You know what to do."

Kyrie pressed her hand against her mouth. Really? She could always count on Mary. Why not now?

She tried John. He didn't answer either. She sighed heavily and decided to send them a message as least.

\- Baby is coming. I'm alone. Sherlock left his phone. K.

Her mind was a complete blank and she wasn't sure if she was in early labour or if she'd progressed to active labour. She called her midwife just in case.

By the time she heard footsteps running on the stairs, Kyrie was delirious with pain and desperately fighting the birth. She did not want to have the baby without Sherlock!

The door flew open and three people stumbled inside; John, Mary and her midwife.

"Where the hell is Sherlock?" John breathed through his nose in anger.

Kyrie started crying that it was her fault and she protested the moment Mary carried her hospital bag into the living room.

"I don't want to go to the hospital," Kyrie rasped, "I want to stay here and wait for Sherlock. I always wanted a home birth in the first place. Please?"

Mary looked at the midwife who shook her head. "Sorry, I didn't schedule in enough time for a home birth and this place is not prepared."

"I gave birth in the back of a fucking car!" Mary bit out. "Don't tell me Kyrie can't give birth at home." She looked round at John. "Find Sherlock, let Mycroft use CCTV or drones or the entire fucking army, just find him!"

Kyrie sobbed in relief now her best friend was here to back her up. She had done her research, giving birth at home was perfectly safe; she was healthy and the pregnancy had been straightforward. Sherlock, of course, had wanted nothing but the best and safest for the arrival of his son, but Kyrie just wanted the comfort and intimacy of home.

"I'm going to prepare the bed with bin liners and some towels. Kyrie is having the baby here, if that's what she wants. She's in too much of a state already."

The midwife sighed in defeat and told Mary she'd get the birth pack she'd been planning to bring to another soon-to-be-mummy.

In no time at all, Mary came back and helped Kyrie to the bedroom. "Sorry Kyrie, I couldn't find any old towels or sheets, I used the ones I could find. They will need replacing."

Kyrie gave her a feeble smile before she clutched at her abdomen in pain. "It's okay," she panted. "Thank you..."

"Hey, what are friends for! And you were there for me too, remember?"

She didn't reply. She could feel another contraction build up and she bit through the pain. She didn't want to help her body along in giving birth. Not until Sherlock was here. She ignored the worried glances between the Mary and the midwife as they helped her in bed.

Mary crawled on bed behind Kyrie to give her support, so Kyrie could get in position at the foot end of the bed. The midwife tutted in disapproval seeing the low height of the bed. Since a home delivery hadn't been planned, the bed had not been raised.

Mary rubbed her back soothingly.

 _Okay, Sherlock,_ Kyrie thought, _I know I've been acting like a bitch, but I really need you here with me. Now._


	122. And Back to Heaven Again

**A/N Tadaa! Meet Baby Holmes!**

 **Artemis7448 I always planned to have Mary survive. Once I saw the friendship that formed between them, I knew that her death would devastate her even more than it had Sherlock. I just couldn't. Glad you approve of that decision. I think they can both become savages when it comes to family.**

 **Ellemichellep Sadly, it's not a dream!**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Oh, Mary definitely had something to say about it! He can be a stubborn jackass at times! Even now, he's still learning.**

 **DreamonAlina Don't worry, Sherlock comes to the right conclusion pretty soon. And Baby Holmes this chapter ;-) Love to hear your thoughts!**

 **Jane S. Gold LOL I didn't mean to Moftiss you guys. I had meant the last half of previous chapter be the first half of this one. Just the scene before that was too short to make a full chapter of. I've always been a fan of Jonathan Creek as well (love the intro!) and when he got married with a woman named Polly... well, I just had to take it for a spin!**

 **Companion Teresa Yes, I wasn't really satisfied with the abrupt change myself. I had intended to have the fight be part of the next chapter. I just didn't have the motivation or inspiration to make the Mary-Kyrie-Molly scene any longer and I didn't want to build up a fight over months worth of time. I really just wanted to get to the baby bit, because I knew that's where I could get some energy and drive back again. I hope this chapter makes up for the abruptness of last chapter.**

 **Kuppcake He sure does! He feels properly contrite and knows how lucky he is to have Kyrie as his wife!**

 **But I'm not what you are here for... You all want to meet Baby Holmes so I suggest you read on!**

SSS

His heart was hammering in his chest when he burst through the entrance door of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock felt as if a dagger had pierced his heart. _A self-inflicted wound_ , he thought, storming up the stairs, John right behind him.

He no longer felt the throbbing in his jaw where John's fist had connected...

In his anger, he'd decided to help out Lestrade with a case... It had been an easy enough case. Jealous nearly ex-wife had killed her soon-to-be ex because otherwise she'd be left penniless. She'd sweetened bitter almonds and sent them in a few fancy tins to his office, knowing her ex wouldn't be able to resist. He'd died of cyanide poisoning. After that case, still not feeling like going home, he'd read through the reports of another case and then bribed Molly into letting him use her lab at such an ungodly hour. Quite pointless really, but peering at the slides in the microscope helped him clear his mind. Molly had left him alone with his thoughts after a few hours of silence. It had suited him just fine.

Only when John came bursting through the door to Molly's lab and tackled him, did he stop to think about his very pregnant wife at home, due to give birth any day now. Then he nearly had a heart attack when John told him Kyrie was in labour, that very moment!

He stopped dead in his tracks when he could hear Kyrie labour in childbirth upstairs. Blood ran from his face and his brow creased with worry. Only John's shove propelled him into action again.

"She's still in labour? I thought you said she texted right after lunch?"

"First babies can be slow, Sherlock," John assured him. "You know this already."

He did... But how slow was slow? He looked at his watch. It was well past midnight already! Why had he insisted on using Greg's phone when he realised he'd left his at home? Why hadn't he returned to pick up his phone, to make sure he was available in case of an emergency like this? Why the hell had it seemed so important to study those soil samples?

When John shoved him again, he realised how futile it was to think like that. Nothing he could do to change that now. Now, his wife needed him, no matter how bad of a fight they'd had earlier.

"I'm here, I'm here!" he yelled as he stalked through the kitchen in the direction of their bedroom.

The door to his bedroom opened and Mary hurried out.

One look at her worried face told him something was wrong. He stared at her in disbelief. No... Just – no.

"Thank God you are here! She's fighting the birth, Sherlock," Mary told him. "She's been struggling to keep the baby from being born, and both are tiring."

"Why would she fight it?" he asked, panicking at the thought of losing either of them. "We've been anticipating the baby's arrival for ages!"

"She kept mumbling about a fight and how she didn't want you to miss the birth because of that."

The look in her eyes told Sherlock she wasn't impressed with him. His mind drifted back to a discussion they'd had not long ago.

" _Sherlock, you idiot!" Mary hissed at him, looking around the perfect picture that had become the nursery._

 _He had purchased dark oak furniture to compliment his old cradle. Like_ _the_ _dark oak bench, lined with a terracotta coloured cushion to sit on,_ _s_ _o Kyrie could make herself comfortable when feeding their son_ _during the day. At night, he would bring her their son in bed of course._

 _Striped fabric lined the bench in a soft drape, with terracotta, brown and sea foam coloured stripes. These colours returned in the cushions decorating the bench and also in the drapes framing the window._

 _There was a gorgeous six drawer dresser that offered the practicality of an armoire. It had five deep and spacious exterior drawers and a large door opened to reveal an inner drawer inside along with an airy interior to hang additional clothing or accessories._

 _On the left side wall, next to the window, was a dark oak changing table with a safety rail and soft changing pad. That piece of furniture also had three easily accessible, spacious drawers beneath to store towels, nappies and everything else that Kyrie might want or need to store in there. Anthea had made sure that supplies_ _had been_ _delivered right at the door of Baker Street to keep the changing table filled for plenty of time to come._

 _Then there was the toy chest and the small army of stuffed animals... He'd even gotten a classically tailored convertible crib. Also in dark oak with gentle slopes, clean lines, a handsomely carved panel headboard and cornerstone burl wood trim moulding. It could be converted 4 times, ending_ _up_ _in a stylish junior bed._

 _Kyrie would not have been able to do a better job, he was sure of it. And, with the stress of getting the nursery ready out of the way, Kyrie could focus on delightfully being pregnant._

" _I can't believe you went ahead and finished the nursery... as a surprise! I would have killed you!"_ _Mary_ _muttered._

 _Sherlock reeled back in surprise at first, then he became annoyed. "Well, glad I'm not married to you then," he spat. "Kyrie happened to love it. She loved it so much, it left her speechless. And why not? I did a great job. I'm not John who can't make a decision between 'lemonade pink' or 'lavender pink'. It's pink for fuck's sake!"_

 _Mary shook her head in dismay. "You really_ _ **are**_ _an idiot."_

"Sherlock, snap out of it!"

He shook his head to clear it.

"She needs you in there, as in right now, Sherlock! She was so adamant you'd make it, she's been fighting the labour the entire time!"

Sherlock needed no further encouragement. He burst into the bedroom, startling the midwife with his sudden presence, and approached the bed where his wife lay writhing in the midst of a contraction.

He shed his Belstaff and threw it behind him, his scarf landed on a heap as well. Leaning close to her, Sherlock took her hand in his and brushed sweat-soaked wisps of gold off her forehead. Tears appeared in her pain-glazed eyes when she caught sight of him.

"You're here! John found you!" she muttered, sounding very tired. "I knew you'd be here in time." She tried to smile at him.

"I'm sorry I left so angry. And I'm sorry I made all the decisions without you, I never should have done that," he told her softly. "I guess I still have a lot to learn. If Mycroft hadn't found me and sent John out to get me..."

She shook her head and clenched her teeth at another contraction. "You've been wonderful. _I_ am sorry."

"Fine, you are sorry..." he agreed, trying to keep his voice calm and gentle though his nerves were rioting crazily. "We can fight over who gets to take the most blame later; first you have to deliver our son, okay?"

"Push at the next contraction, Kyrie," the midwife ordered her. "Don't fight it this time and pant when it stops."

"Come on, Kyrie. We can do this. _You_ can do this," he whispered. Her grasp on his hand tightened.

"I'm here now, I'm here for our son to be born. So, push when you feel the next contraction, okay?"

She faintly nodded at him and her hand tightened on his painfully.

"Now! Push!" the midwife ordered.

"Push, Kyrie," Sherlock whispered against her ear. "I'm here."

With clenched teeth, Kyrie lifted her head from the pillow, crushing Sherlock's hand with an astounding force. Sherlock felt faint when she cried out; he could see her whole body trembling with the strain as she bore down with all of her might.

When she released the death grip on his hand, Sherlock slowly got up and anxiously watched a little head with tufts of black hair emerge from his wife's body. The moment the head was out, the wrinkled little squirt gave a smothered cry.

"Oh God, he's angry at the world already!" Mary laughed. Sherlock's mind refused to cooperate, he could only stare slack-jawed as his wife was giving birth to his son, who really did seem furious at the humiliation of it all. Words he'd often heard from his mother's lips when she told the story of his own birth.

"Okay, stop pushing now, Kirry," Mary said, holding her other hand. "You are doing great. Just, take a deep breath because you are not done yet!"

"Again," the midwife told her.

Kyrie clenched her teeth as she bore down again and pushed out the shoulders.

"Definitely a good set of lungs," Sherlock remarked, impressed by both the forceful wail of his son and the ruthless experience of the birth.

The youngest Holmes wailed again in indignation as he got pushed out into the world, straight into the waiting hands of the midwife. He waved tiny little fists around, his wrinkled little face crimson red as he cried.

Kyrie smiled tiredly upon hearing the wailing of their son and she lay her head back against the pillow. The midwife smiled broadly and set the squalling infant on her belly.

Sherlock gazed at the tiny squirming baby. Exactly that moment, it had to be impossible but Sherlock swore it was true, his son looked at him and stopped crying.

"We have a son," he whispered reverently. "You did it."

"I did, didn't I?" she said with a smile, her fatigue evident in her voice.

"Yes, you did." He dropped a kiss on her brow.

She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with love.

Mary leaned in closer for a good look. "You were right, Kirry... Look at him, he _is_ a carbon copy of his dad!" She laughed and cried at the same time.

Sherlock puffed out his chest with pride. "When can I hold him?" he asked, trying to sound casual but the slight quiver betrayed him, even to himself.

The midwife offered him a pair of scissors. "When you cut the umbilical cord and I've cleaned him up a bit. Do you want to...?"

He hesitated for a moment, then finally nodded his head. The midwife turned his son and tied of the cord, while gently cleaning most of the blood and fluid from his little writhing body.

"Right here." She pointed where he had to cut.

He steadied himself. It was just a little cut, but one that would sever his son from his mother. He gulped, then furrowed his brows and decisively cut the cord. He blinked a couple of times, but the midwife then briefly took his son away for a quick evaluation of his health.

A moment later, Sherlock was already reaching out for the child, his son was placed in his arms. With wonder, he looked at the mottled skin. The eyes of the small infant were wide open. Sherlock's lips parted a bit. He was certain his son was looking back at him with intelligent curiosity. He carefully pressed his lips against the tiny little forehead and felt his eyes moisten.

"I'm going to help get Kyrie cleaned up, Sherlock," Mary said under her breath. I know it's late – or early, in fact – but John is still waiting out there and I think he's besides himself by now. Is it okay if...?"

"Of course," he mumbled and held his son close to him as Mary and the midwife got rid of the dirty towels and bed linens and helped Kyrie until she was clean and comfortable back in bed.

He gave his wife a trembling smile when he handed her their son. Together they watched the small miracle they had brought to life; they spread the tiny little fingers and softly caressed the soft tufts of raven black hair.

Sherlock could scarcely believe that was his son his wife cradled in her arms. A child fathered by him! Though he wasn't very big – the brief moment he'd held his son had told him his son was 6,7 pounds, – he was certainly energetic and alert. He smiled when he saw how his child turned his head and purposefully rooted for Kyrie's breast. When he didn't get what he was after, he instantly wailed in indignation again.

"Good Lord! He even inherited his dad's impatience and hot-headedness. You've got your work cut out for you, Kirry!"

Kyrie chuckled elated. "I hope so!"

The midwife helped their son find his goal and soon he latched on and was suckling contently at his mother's breast. She then helped, showing Kyrie how to disengage her son if he didn't let go of her nipple by himself, telling her it was important to feed from both breasts and alternate. Kyrie then fed him some more from her other breast until he had his fill and gave a sleepy and contented little sigh.

"Does our son have a name yet?" Sherlock asked her quietly.

"He certainly does," she said with a smile. "Mary, can you get John, please? I'd like him to meet someone."

"Yeah, of course." Mary returned a wobbly smile. Her face was a mess of tears and run out mascara and she made a few futile attempts to wipe at them as she walked away.

She soon returned, nearly dragging John along with him who looked quite bashful as he entered the bedroom. His eyes were instantly drawn to the sleeping child.

"Wow," John whispered. "No need to wonder about this little guy's parentage." He gave Sherlock a crooked grin. "He _does_ look exactly like you!"

"I did all the work and he gets all the credit," Kyrie said with a teasing smirk.

"You really think he looks like me?" Sherlock asked eagerly.

"Don't show your beautiful feathers just yet, you strutting peacock. I may still discover something of myself in him." Kyrie smiled at Sherlock and held up his son for him to take. He knew exactly what she wanted, but before he took the baby from her arms, he leaned and whispered against her ear, "Without you, my little shortcake, our baby wouldn't even be here."

He smiled down at her and gave her a kiss before he walked over to John. John looked up in surprise when Sherlock carefully offered him his newborn son. John's arms instantly, and very carefully, folded protectively around the small little squirt.

Kyrie looked at Sherlock.

"St John Beauregard Mycroft Holmes, that's what I want his name to be."

" _Sinjun_?" Sherlock tried the name.

John looked up in shocked surprise.

Kyrie giggled. " _St John_. I want to name our son after you and the two men who made sure you arrived in time."

"What does 'Beauregard' have to do with me?"

"Beau. Regard. It's French. You know French. It means 'handsome gaze'."

He opened his mouth to say something, but found he didn't have the words. He watched as John looked down at little _St John._ He had to admit, the name had a nice ring to it.

He smiled down at his wife. "St John Beauregard it is then."

She grinned. "You forget Mycroft."

"Do we _have_ to call him that?"

"Yes. He found you and... one night, years ago, he was there for me. I want to name our son in honour of the man who saved me that night and, ultimately, led me to you."

"How can I argue with logic like that?" he asked with a smile.

"You can't."

SSS

It was early morning and Sherlock stood in the nursery, cradling his son against his chest, supporting his downy head with one hand while absently stroking his back with the other. His son was slumbering peacefully, but Sherlock knew he was bound to wake soon. Through the night, he'd changed his son's nappy twice. He honestly didn't understand all the fuss John had made about it. It was dead easy. Okay, so St John had caught him off guard one time... happily squirting away at him the moment his nappy was removed. It wouldn't happen again.

Sherlock was in his night gear, wearing his light blue dressing gown over his pyjamas. He looked around the beautiful nursery and hated it.

" _What colour should we use for the baby room?" Kyrie asked him, a happy smile on her face. She held the tips of her thumbs and index fingers lightly pressed together, as if she was looking through a frame. "I don't want boring blue... How about mint or sea foam?"_

His throat constricted a little at the memory and he swallowed the lump of emotion that started to form. He'd wanted to keep himself – or rather his panicking mind – occupied, claiming it was all to ease some of the stress for Kyrie.

Sherlock remembered the stricken look on her face when he'd showed her his surprise in giddy excitement.

" _It's-it's... beautiful."_ But her words had belied her sagging shoulders. After that, she'd cried for a long time. He'd assumed she was overcome with that pregnancy hormone emotional thingy again. He'd assumed wrong.

Now that he was holding his son, St John, close to him as he stood with him in the nursery, he finally realised that he'd robbed his wife of the pleasure of planning all that baby stuff.

He sighed with deep regret. It was too late now. There was hardly any point in tearing down the nursery now. He might have to give Kyrie free reign in decorating their new home... The home he'd bought for them without consulting with her first. His shoulders drooped.

St John started to wiggle against him and made tiny little huffs. Sherlock knew the huffs would turn to angry squalls pretty soon. He plucked St John from his chest and held him in front of him, gently supporting his head and neck as he gazed into the unflinching stormy blue eyes.

"I'm sorry, little one," he whispered. "Daddy has been a bit of a moron. Doesn't happen a lot, but... You know, sometimes... Let's get you to mummy. You need feeding and... I need to apologise. I'm sorry you are stuck with the name Mycroft by the way," he softly told his son as he carried him out of the nursery and walked down the stairs.

"Sorry kiddo, nothing I could do about it. I already owe your mum enough favours as it is. And when you meet your uncle today, don't be too harsh in your judgement. He's got even more to learn than your old man. Luckily, your mother is a saint. Yes, she is! Not that you care about her disposition right now. You, my little man, want food!" He smiled in delight when his son pursed his lips, as if he was listening intently.

As he walked from the living room through the kitchen towards their bedroom, the thought hit him that maybe they shouldn't wait too long with moving.


	123. Are You a Goldfish?

**A/N Finally! Update time! I didn't get much time to write the past week. There was a staff meeting at work considering the new privacy law in Europe, a long ballet rehearsal for my daughter and of course the play that took place yesterday. I'd hoped to post the new chapter yesterday, but didn't have the time before I had to go. Anyway, it turned out great yesterday and, even though the day was very long (came back home just shy of midnight) it was absolutely wonderful!**

 **These after-show chapters just took on a life of their own. Now, this story will have an epilogue, but... I was thinking about writing a small companion piece that takes place right before that. I don't want it to be part of this story because it will revolve around St John. Unless you guys want me to add it to this story. Thoughts?**

 **St John is pronounced 'Sinjun' by the way, not 'Saint John'. Inspired by one of my favourite shows growing up, Airwolf. The main protagonist Stringfellow Hawke had an older brother who went MIA, named St John. I thought it worked really well with Sherlock having a best friend 'John'.**

 **On to reviews...**

 **Purplestan Not sure what to make of your comment, if you meant it in a good way or maybe disappointed way. But, this is Sherlock's child so he'd never go for an ordinary name. Neither would Kyrie.**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 Kyrie knows that John has a short fuse as he's shown multiple times in SiB, TEH and of course TLD. It wasn't a big fight, just an annoyed punch to the face that wasn't a really big angry punch with bruises and swelling. Otherwise, yes, Kyrie would have been dealt with and she wouldn't have named her son after John. I loved writing that bit in the nursery, Sherlock seeking support with his own son after he messed up (real life experience, I just changed the circumstance). I loved writing everything about the last chapters and what I'm working on now! And St John is already a very short name with how it's pronounced. I doubt Sherlock would call his son 'Sin' or just John.**

 **EllemichelleP I pretty much have an infinite amount of feels stored in a jar somewhere. Gotta love them!**

 **Guest Sorry! Didn't mean to make you ugly cry! Hope this chapter will lift your spirits a bit!**

 **Musical Bear LOL! I'm also attached to li'l St John. I love the new family dynamic and I'm having a lot of fun writing about 'mini-Sherlock'. Mummy and Daddy Holmes, and uncle Mycroft will meet the little one this chapter. I hope you like it! And, as I also stated in the A/N just to be clear, St John is pronounced Sinjun.**

 **Jane S. Gold You will find out their reactions this chapter! I hope you like it! And yes, they will move from Baker Street. A new chapter in their life.**

 **Companion Teresa I'm glad you liked this chapter. I loved writing it and yes, I am a bit proud of it. I needed Sherlock found a bit late. He went away feeling the false security of it not being Kyrie's due date yet, not realising that the stress of their fight could trigger the labour. I kind of wanted St John to be born on his exact due date (Kyrie makes a comment about it). So, I had Sherlock do a few cases, leading Mycroft and John on a bit of a wild goose chase. Bit of a plot hole, but hopefully one that's not glaring in the face too much.**

 **Christiemurdoch and IronLace Mycroft is also a favourite of mine, so adding Mycroft to the name was a bit of a given. And Sherlock sometimes needs a bit of reminding that Mycroft really pulled through for Kyrie when she needed it the most.**

 **Kuppcake St John is how the name is written and Sinjun is how the name is pronounced. And the grandparents and new uncle are meeting the little one this chapter!**

 **Have fun reading and don't forget to leave me a review please!**

SSS

Sherlock carefully opened the door and found his wife still sleeping. Her face looked rather pale, quite different from the heated flush on her cheeks right after St John was born.

He had always considered 'giving birth' as one of those things that was part of life; like learning, experiencing and growing up. He never imagined it was such a harrowing event. Not even Rosie's birth had prepared him for... that. Though, to be fair, he'd not witnessed a lot when Mary was giving birth. He had occupied himself with Google and relaying information about emergency births to Kyrie.

As Sherlock stood there, bit worried about the paleness of Kyrie's skin, it seemed as if St John could sense he was in the right room. He instantly screeched for his mother, effectively waking her from her sleep.

"Sorry," Sherlock chuckled at her. "Did you manage to get some sleep after feeding him?"

"Yes," Kyrie said, grimacing as she struggled upright. "Where were you?" she asked, reaching out for their baby. Sherlock gently placed the bundle in her arms and watched with interest as Kyrie bared her breast and touched her nipple to their son's mouth. The infant latched on and quieted instantly. Sherlock smiled and sat down on the bed, watching his son suckle.

His smile faded though when the inquiring look in Kyrie's eyes reminded him of her question.

"The nursery," he admitted ruefully. "I came to the conclusion I absolutely hate it," he said, his voice cracking with emotion.

Kyrie gasped at him and pressed a gentle hand on his arm. "No! It's beautiful! I'm-I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time about it. It's perfect, you know me so well and..." She suddenly leaned back as if she remembered something and discreetly tried to blink a few tears away.

"It's just that I, I would have loved to..."

"I know," Sherlock said, cutting her off. "That's why I hate it, because I didn't involve you." He reached out and brushed his thumb along her lower lip. "I can sell the house," he said with a sigh, feeling a stab of regret because the house was so perfect for them! "Next time, we will both go to have a look and we will both decide."

Kyrie shook her head with a smile as her eyes filled with tears. Left-over pregnancy hormones? She pressed a kiss against his thumb. "No," she whispered. "You found us the perfect home and you are not selling it because my ego was bruised. I swear though, if we ever move again..."

Sherlock crossed his heart, a face-splitting grin on his face. "You get to decide, I promise! And you can pick the furniture for our new home! When you feel up to it, we'll go have a look together."

He gave Kyrie a look when he realised something... "St John was born on his exact due date! That doesn't happen a lot, does it?"

Kyrie smiled at him. "What did you expect? His father is nothing if not punctual." She then paused and thought for a moment. "When it matters, at least."

Sherlock hummed a bit. "Let me draw you a bath, I'm expecting Mummy and Daddy to arrive sometime today, Mycroft too." He sighed. "Mrs Hudson will want to have a look as well of course and I doubt there's a barricade strong enough to keep away Mary and John."

"Thanks, a bath to prepare me would be lovely!" Kyrie sighed happily.

He took the baby from her arms. "I will bathe the little one while you take yours." He briefly disappeared into the bathroom to get the water running for her.

"Why don't you get the changing pad and his things and clean him inside the bathroom? The temperature is nice and warm and you won't have to drag a bowl of water up and back down," Kyrie suggested.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, handed over St John to his mother and dropped a kiss on both of their heads. "Good idea, I'll get his things."

Soon, Kyrie looked on as she relaxed in the warm water, a lazy smile playing on her lips as Sherlock gently washed the tiny body of their baby boy with cotton wool, using a fresh piece of cotton wool for pretty much each area. Kyrie had no idea what he was saying to him while he cleaned him; he spoke too low and soft for that. She loved listening to his voice though, and judging how St John was eyeing his father quietly, so did he.

When St John was all cleaned, dressed and ready, he started to fall asleep right on the changing pad, giving Sherlock free hands to help Kyrie out of bath. Her lung capacity had not restored fully after she'd been shot, leaving her out of breath easily. That combined with having just given birth to their son... She was grateful for his support.

He silently held a towel up for her when she rose from the bath, water cascading down her body. She blushed when she noticed Sherlock licking his lips and his eyes darkening when he took in her appearance.

She tried to grab for the towel, trying to hide herself from his intense gaze. Though Kyrie's skin seemed to have just snapped back in place, her breasts felt awkward and heavy, and she had found a few striation marks on the lower side of her belly.

Apparently Sherlock did not seem to mind. "You are beautiful," he simply stated, then carefully wrapped the towel around her naked body and lifted her from the bath. He surprised her by pulling her close to him before he let his lips descend on hers. A soft sigh escaped from her lips and when she started to sway on her feat a bit, she didn't object when he easily swooped her up in his arms.

"Allow me," he murmured. She smiled at him and let him carry her to their bed. He briefly disappeared into the bathroom and returned with St John slumbering in his arms.

Sherlock then proceeded to hand Kyrie some undergarments. She chuckled when she saw him studying the nursing bra that dangled from his finger. Laughter that quickly turned to silent embarrassment when he handed her a _maternity pad_ to line her panties with, before he handed her a comfortable dress.

It did help when he acted like it was the most normal thing to do and kept his focus on their son as Kyrie took the opportunity to quickly dress herself. When she was ready, he walked up to her with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Don't feel embarrassed around me. There's really no need. Come..." He extended his free hand to her and Kyrie took it.

Soon, all three of them were lying on bed. St John slumbering between them as his parents carefully studied his features.

"He's less wrinkly today," Sherlock said with a grin on his face, while softly tracing a finger up and down St John's body.

"He's perfect," Kyrie murmured.

He gazed into her eyes. "Just like his mother," he said softly.

Suddenly the simple act of swallowing seemed like a chore. She blushed and looked down at St John. "Don't be silly," she stammered a bit. "I'm not..."

"Don't even try to argue with me on this one," he warned her with a teasing glint in his eyes, "After all, I'm the world's only Consulting Detective. I know these things."

He kissed the top of her head and hesitated for a moment, then he whispered in her ear, "I love you." He quickly pulled back and cleared his throat.

Kyrie couldn't help but smile at his sudden bashful attitude. Even though he'd told her he loved her, and showed her this every day in his own little ways, she knew saying these things didn't come natural to him. She doubted it ever would, but she found she didn't really mind.

"I'd better get some food inside of you," he said, trying to act casual. "What would you like for breakfast?"

Kyrie blinked up at him and arched a delicate brow. "Breakfast... You?"

He grinned at her. "Who do you think I am? Mrs Hudson can surely accommodate us. Just tell me what you'd like and I'll relay your wishes downstairs.

Kyrie started to chuckle. "You are a horrible man!"

He hummed in agreement. "I know, but you love me anyway."

She beamed up at him, suppressing a tiny laugh when she noticed the slight look of surprise on his face. It was as if he just came to the realisation that she did in fact love him. She could feel her heart swell. "Yes, I do."

SSS

That afternoon, Kyrie sat in the sofa and leaned back, smiling tiredly as Sherlock proudly showed their offspring to his parents and his brother. Mrs Hudson kept peeking a beaming face around the corner to steal glimpses of the newest Baker Street inhabitant and also kept asking if more tea or other refreshments were needed. She did so every ten minutes!

Both Mummy and Daddy Holmes were completely over the moon.

"Isn't he precious?" Mrs Hudson cooed as she breezed in again to refill the tea cups. Even though this was not needed as no one had felt the need to finish their sixth cuppa.

"He certainly is!" Mummy agreed with pride. "He's going to take after his dad, just look at that little mop of curly dark hair! He sure is a lot quieter than you were, Sherlock."

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock quipped, giving Kyrie a wink, "You haven't heard him around feeding time."

"Oh, rubbish," Mummy brushed his comment away and cooed at the infant. St John stared up at her with wide unblinking eyes. She and Daddy studied his eyes – and everything else about him – carefully.

"I daresay he'll have your eyes, Kyrie," Daddy told her, his eyes filled with emotion. "The colour at least. Sherlock's eyes were a lot lighter than this."

"Good to know I'll be able to recognise something of myself in him." She gave Sherlock a warm look. "Besides that, I fully expect a miniature-Sherlock running around before long."

Mummy reluctantly relinquished the hold on her grandson when Sherlock held out his waiting arms. She gave him a bit of a sour look.

Kyrie chuckled when she noticed the startled look on Mycroft's face when Sherlock walked over to him and held out St John to him. The startled look turned to full blown panic when his younger sibling lowered the little bundle and Mycroft had not other choice but to receive the precious burden.

Mummy leaned forward as Sherlock quietly instructed Mycroft how to hold the baby. Kyrie smiled warmly at her attempt to draw the attention away from Mycroft's awkwardness.

"Speaking of 'miniature-Sherlock', don't you think you've kept us guessing long enough? I would really like to know the name of my grandson now."

Sherlock beamed at Kyrie. They'd been waiting for the moment till his brother held his newborn nephew.

"His name is..." he briefly paused for effect, "St John Beauregard Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft's head shot up in surprise and Mummy, Daddy too actually, instantly teared up.

" _Sinjun_ Beauregard Mycroft Holmes," she said hesitantly, trying the sound. "Quite a name for such a small boy."

Sherlock grinned at her. "He'll grow into it," he said. "Well?" he then asked his brother. "What do you think? And don't you dare say something horrible like 'he looks fully-functioning'."

"He looks..." Mycroft started, sitting ram-rod straight in the chair, staring at the little bundle in his arms with an odd look on his face. "... promising," he finished after a long pause.

Kyrie laughed at his solemn statement and at Sherlock who rolled his eyes at his brother. She knew however, that St John had already burrowed a place in his uncle's reluctant heart. Seeing the protective look shine through in his otherwise guarded eyes, Kyrie realised there was nothing Mycroft wouldn't do for his nephew. Though it was a very comforting thought, it also filled her with just a bit of dread.

"In regards to setting up security detail," Mycroft said, not taking his eyes from his little nephew, "I'd like to have word as soon as you decide whether the townhouse at Wesley Street will become your new dwelling or not. I know you've taken a step back in your handling of cases, but _Sherlock Holmes_ has a lot of enemies and I refuse to let either my sister-in-law or my nephew become a target."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but Kyrie beat him to it. She knew it was pointless to fight Mycroft on this, but she did have one small condition.

"I do hope you'll put Rafe and Savant back on the job, Mycroft. I've grown to like them quite a bit."

Mycroft opened and closed his mouth, much like the 'goldfish' around him he so detested. The expression on Sherlock's face didn't look much more intelligent either. Mummy looked from one son to the other and started the laugh. She patted her husband's knee; he too had an utterly confused look on his face.

"You... knew... about Rafe and Savant?" Mycroft asked her, his voice edged with a steely sharpness.

"Of course!" Kyrie huffed. "I'm not a complete ignoramus! I've known about Rafe and Savant ever since you had them shadow me after Gerulf's attack!"

Mycroft's mouth dropped open as his younger brother's lips twitched with a smile. "You've been feeding them as well, haven't you?"

Kyrie could feel the blood rush to her cheeks and tried to ignore when Mummy doubled over with laughter. "Well... someone had to! They always had to follow me when I went out and... sometimes the weather was really bad. I... may have ordered coffee and lunch to be brought over to them whenever I had lunch somewhere."

Mycroft groaned in dismay. "Do you realise you completely ruined their cover? No wonder they were always so eager to keep an eye on you, even though they considered that job way beneath them at first."

"We should have known, Mycroft," Sherlock laughed. "After all, she's been keeping me fed throughout the years, _and_ Mary and John, often Mrs Hudson, and you too... why should it surprise us she's been feeding your staff as well?"

"Your mummy is a goldfish," Mycroft muttered against his nephew. "She's a sweet goldfish, but a goldfish none the less. Are you a goldfish?" He studied the dark grey orbs that stared back at him. "No," he said thoughtfully, "I think not."

Kyrie smiled at his words.

SSS

Young St John Beauregard Mycroft Holmes grew with a speed that surprised his parents, delighted his grandparents and even impressed uncle Mycroft. Though he claimed time and time again he'd never been good with humans – even though everyone knew he meant babies – even he agreed that St John was a fine looking boy.

Sherlock clearly doted on the little man, whose existence filled him with a happiness and feeling of content and belonging he never dared to even imagine.

He took great pleasure in taking care of the boy. When the baby monitor came to life in the middle of the night, Sherlock was the one who padded through kitchen and living room, and went up the stairs to bring their son to Kyrie so she could feed him.

He held him in his arms, cradled him and talked to him as if St John could understand his every word. Sherlock swore he did; he just lacked the ability for now to respond. Even changing nappies was no problem for Sherlock Holmes. After that one little mishap, he found the most efficient way of changing his son's nappy and he often did so without further incidents.

Kyrie found a happiness in motherhood that exceeded all of her expectations. Whether she nursed him, bathed him, cradled him or sang him a lullaby, she felt wonderfully complete.

St John surprised his parents by sleeping through the night after two weeks. As long as Kyrie made sure to give him his last feed at midnight, St John slept till exactly six o'clock. At which point he'd wake the entire street in his demand to be fed. Sherlock started setting an alarm so he could bring his son to Kyrie before everyone else was wide awake.

Of course, St John did demand Kyrie's instant and full attention when he was wide awake. She didn't mind, she was too happy to not have to feed at ungodly hours at night any more. A small little fact that John and Mary were maybe just a bit envious about.

"So, no more broken nights for you?" Mary asked her incredulously. She and Kyrie were sitting on the sofa, while John was sitting in the armchair next to the living room door.

"Nope," Kyrie said with a bright smile. "Last feed at midnight and then he wakes up and... demands to be fed... at six. He can get awfully loud if he's not with me at precisely six o'clock."

John didn't say anything, he just stared at his namesake, who was now one month old, with his mouth wide open.

Little Miss Rosie tottered up to Kyrie and started bouncing on her little feet. "Simmon play?" she asked, curiously eyeing the bundle Kyrie held in her arms.

Mary grinned at her daughter, who was sporting two tiny pigtails that stood up like two little palm trees.

"I'm sorry, darling," Kyrie said, brushing her knuckles lightly against Rosie's cheek. "Simmon is just a baby and can't play with you yet."

Rosie pouted a bit at first, then another thought struck her. "Auntie? Cookie? Tea?"

John snorted with laughter. "You've spoiled her rotten, Kyrie! Rosie knows exactly where and _whom_ to ask that question."

"Of course she does!" Kyrie cooed at Rosie, "I'm her godmother, so I'm allowed to spoil her! Why don't you go to the kitchen Rosie? You can ask uncle Sherlock for the tea."

Rosie chortled happily and tottered over to the kitchen.

"Oh hello, Rosie."

Kyrie smiled hearing the easy way Sherlock addressed the young girl.

"Let me guess, you want to have a look in auntie Kyrie's cupboard to see what treats she has stored there this time, hm?"

"Cookie and tea!" Rosie exclaimed excitedly.

"Let me just clear this away..."

"Did you find anything interesting, Sherlock?" Mary called out at him.

"Not really," he replied loudly as he cleared away his equipment. "It was just as I thought, food colouring. That statue was stolen and replaced even before it was put on display. The daughter _curator_ was in on it of course, had to be. She'd know the difference between the real statue and an edible duplicate."

"You've got to be kidding me!" John cried out.

"I don't kid," Sherlock huffed. "She ate the whole thing and then claimed it was stolen from right under her nose while she was... meditating or something."

"What gave her away?" Kyrie asked him.

"Her rash. Too much food colouring; it triggered an allergic reaction. That I and I noticed a cookbook on decorating chocolate in the photographs. I'm texting Jonathan now. He should find a marked page in that book on food colouring."

"Jonathan? Jonathan Creek?" Kyrie asked.

"Yes..."

The sound of tin cans opening and an excited squeal told Kyrie that Sherlock was letting Rosie have a little whiff of the teas she had on offer.

"... he asked my opinion on this case and sent me a few samples.

"How are things between him and Molly?" Mary asked, a wide grin plastered on her face.

"Why don't you ask them?" Sherlock quipped. "I believe Molly dragged him to some B&B for the weekend somewhere, so you may have to ask when she gets back."

With a pot of tea brewing, most likely Lady Grey as that seemed to be Rosie's favourite, Sherlock entered the living room and held out his arms. "My turn," he simply said, a small smile playing on his lips. Kyrie handed him their son, who started to wake from his slumber and blinked open his eyes.

"You've got about half an hour before he'll want to be fed," Kyrie said with a warm smile.

"Plenty of time then," Sherlock said, settling down on the sofa next to her, propping up his feet against the coffee table so he could place St John in his lap.

"Sherlock, shoes!" Kyrie reminded him.

He tutted in obvious annoyance, but briefly lifted his feet from the table anyway, allowing Kyrie to tug at his shoelaces so she could remove his shoes. He wiggled his toes before planting his feet against the coffee table again.

Kyrie smiled at that. She knew that at home he preferred to be free from the confinement of his shoes; he just tended to forget he was still wearing them.

Mary scooted a bit closer to have a look at St John. She frowned a bit.

"He's awfully quiet. Doesn't he make any sounds?"

"St John makes plenty of sounds, when it matters," Sherlock huffed. "He's not prone to witless gurgling or cooing."

"Oh hush, St John coos, gurgles and hums like every other baby. Just not as much."

"He likes to think," Sherlock stated proudly.

Mary snorted with laughter. "He doesn't think yet, Sherlock! He's still a baby! Show him a rattle and he'll forget it exists when he no longer sees it."

Kyrie pursed her lips. "I... wouldn't be so sure about that, Mare..."

"Shall we show aunt Mary and uncle John how clever you are?" Sherlock asked his son. St John made no sound, he just stared up at his dad.

"Cookie? Tea?" Rosie asked hopefully, tugging at Kyrie's dress.

"Of course, little darling!" Kyrie got up and gave Rosie a hand. "Let me get you some tea and a chocolate chip cookie. Or are you more like uncle Sherlock and would you like a ginger nut?"

"Chip, chip!"

Kyrie laughed and cuddled the little girl. "Chocolate chip coming up."

Soon, Kyrie brought over a tray of tea things and once Rosie was installed with a cup of slightly cooled tea and a cookie, and all the adults were cradling a cup of tea and were treated to cookies as well, Kyrie went in search for St John's rattle.

Sherlock smiled when Kyrie handed him St John's favourite one, a beautiful antique silver rattle with a white ribbon, courtesy of uncle Mycroft.

"He doesn't care much for his other rattles, but he likes this one. I think it's because of the way it sounds," Sherlock explained softly, showing his son the rattle. St John instantly locked his gaze onto it and started kicking his legs and waved around his little fists.

Sherlock gently shook the rattle, creating a soft tinkling sound and moved it slowly from side to side, St John tracked the movement as if he were mesmerised. Sherlock then put the rattle to his right side. Instead of looking back up to his father or focussing on something else, St John kept staring in the direction he last saw the rattle. When the rattle didn't return, he emitted a discontented little huff.

Mary stared at him with wide eyes.

"Okay, that's just a bit creepy," she said. "How is he able to...?"

Kyrie laughed. "He's a little thinker, just like his dad."

John watched his namesake, a humoured smile playing on his lips. "I'm afraid you named him after the wrong person then, Kyrie. I was never that precocious."

"Kyrie did not name him after the wrong person," Sherlock objected. "You are still are one of the wisest and bravest men I – _we_ – know... He'll have a superior intellect, that's a given with his genes, and if he's lucky, he'll hopefully turn out at least half as wise and brave as you."

Kyrie couldn't agree more with her husband and she kissed him on his cheek to tell him she agreed wholeheartedly with him.


	124. Six Weeks

**A/N Sorry, bit short. Temperature is way too hot here! Brain feels cooked and I can hardly concentrate on writing.**

 **After this there will be 1 or 2 chapters left, then I will do the companion piece in a separate story (unless you guys want to read it as part of this story) and then the actual epilogue. I wanted to add in one last love scene before wrapping this story up.**

 **Thank you all for your patience and sticking with this story. I hope you guys will continue to read and review!**

 **Enjoy!**

SSS

By the time St John was six weeks old, he showed a very precise schedule and also a preference for milk straight from his mummy's breast. This was one thing that drove his father up the walls, because St John refused expressed milk from a bottle.

He made such a raucous when his demands weren't met on time, that Kyrie was sure the entire street new exactly when it was time to feed him. The moment he was in his mother's arms, he instantly knew she was the right person to satiate his growing hunger and eagerly started to root for her breast. Every little obstacle that got in his way was met squawks of displeasure and impatience.

"He really does take after you," Kyrie told her husband with a teasing smile. St John was kneading her breast with his tiny little fists as he eagerly suckled on her breast. She was giving him his last feed of the day, which would allow his parents some alone time until six o'clock.

Sherlock raised an enquiring brow at her.

"I seem to recall you had a similar reaction when there was no prospect of a new case and you couldn't find any cigarettes."

He snorted with laughter. "I recall nothing of the sort. Nor do I recall your attempt of soothing me by giving my scalp a massage, even though you were still angry with me."

He paused and gave her a thoughtful look. "Looking back on it, I think you were already attracted to me back then. Can't imagine why. My attitude towards you should have a awarded me with a trophy for arseholery."

Kyrie laughed at his remark. "If I remember correctly, you were already attracted to me as well. Drugged or not, you never would have kissed me the way you did, that night in Dartmoor, if you hadn't been." She kept her eyes on her husband as he slowly got to his feet and sauntered over to her.

"And your reaction to the praise I got after I sang the Habanera, can only be described as jealousy."

Sherlock stopped right in front of her and gently pulled her to her feet as to not disturb their son who was on the verge of falling asleep in her arms.

"I was attracted to you," he admitted freely. "And you were attracted to me. I curse my lack of aptitude back then to just accept both of those facts... and act on them."

Their eyes locked for a long intense moment. They didn't need words to understand each other; the longing was clearly evident in both of their eyes, of this Kyrie was sure. With a lot of effort, Kyrie tore her gaze away from his sultry looks.

At night, their embraces and cuddles had started out gentle and sweet those first few weeks after St John's birth, but the last few nights their kisses and touches had steadily become more heated and erotic.

Sherlock had been adamant though; he would not take things beyond a bit of fondling and touching until six weeks had past. Only then would he even consider giving being intimate a try. Those six weeks had now passed and Kyrie felt giddy and nervous at the same time.

"Is our little man ready for the night?" he asked softly.

Kyrie nodded mutely at him and allowed him to take St John from her arms so he could lay him down to sleep. She then retreated to their bedroom, indulging in her relaxing evening ritual of getting ready for bed, which had included taking a mini pill since the past week. This time, she completed her ritual with trembling fingers.

She smiled a bit when she crawled on top of the bed in a cream coloured nightdress. Though she did not consider it the least bit sensual, Sherlock felt different. He'd not been able to keep his arousal a secret from her several times when he climbed in bed next to her. The fabric wasn't transparent, no lace decorations anywhere, just a bit low cut so it made breastfeeding easier. Oh...

Hearing the sound of a door closing, Kyrie realised that Sherlock had entered the bathroom using the door right outside of the bedroom. He usually used the door inside the bedroom... She blinked when she realised he was perhaps as nervous as she was.

She stifled a laugh when he emerged from the bathroom, dressed – from the looks of it – in nothing but his camel coloured dressing gown. A muscle twitched in his cheek as he approached the bed and there was little he could do to hide his 'anticipation'.

When he saw what she was looking at, his cheeks tainted a bit pink. "I know. Bit presumptuous here. Sorry," he murmured before joining her on the bed. "I'm very aroused, Kyrie," he then said, his voice apologetic, as if it was something bad.

Kyrie raised her hand and slipped it underneath the fabric of his dressing gown, caressing the muscles she encountered with her fingers. "I know," she whispered. "So am I."

Sherlock didn't answer her. His eyes clouded over as he dipped his head to softly touch his lips to hers. She opened her mouth eagerly for him and revelled in the feeling as he slowly explored the insides of her mouth with his tongue.

She sighed in contentment when he released her, feeling her body tingling all over.

"You'll let me know if it's... uncomfortable... right?" he asked her, right before sliding his tongue over the swell of a breast.

"Don't stop," she pleaded as he continued his path to her other breast.

"That's what you say now," he muttered, sounding a bit unhappy.

Kyrie couldn't help but emit a tiny laugh. She just couldn't imagine having to stop because of discomfort or pain... not if he was gentle, like she knew he could be.

"It won't hurt if you are gentle," she assured him. She would have said anything to keep him from stopping what he was doing.

He groaned lustfully as he pulled down her nightdress, exposing a soft pale orb of flesh to his touch and vision.

Kyrie gasped for air when he traced a hot, wet trail across her skin, shuddering in delight.

"Do you like this?" he asked, coming back up to her, teasing her lips with his.

"You know I do," she whispered against his lips, before his mouth claimed hers in a searing kiss. His fingers travelled to the hem of the nightdress and soon he pulled it up and over her head. Instead of kissing her, he closed his mouth over a breast and gently touched a tongue to her nipple. She sighed at the sensations that were so much more powerful now her breasts were so sensitive. Sparks of desire ignited inside of her and she arched her back into his touch, raking her fingers through his curls as he feasted on the soft curves.

He upped the ante by sliding a hand down her body, slipping his fingers underneath the fabric of her panties. She moaned and opened herself up to him, then gasped for breath as she felt him gently explore her, causing tiny shocks of pleasure to spark there as well. God, how she longed for him! She writhed under his exquisite torment and she knew she wouldn't be able to last long like this.

"Not so fast," she panted. "I want to wait for you."

He nodded silently and got up, shedding the dressing gown from his shoulders while Kyrie quickly relieved herself of the last garment she was wearing. She went to sit on her knees and allowed her hand to explore his body, starting with the muscles in his chest, then his ribs, his stomach... until her fingers finally closed around him and she started to return the favour.

At first, Sherlock stood entirely still, his head fell back and he closed his eyes as he enjoyed her ministrations. She licked her lips when she could see and feel him getting slick. She bent her head with every intention to taste him, but he closed his hand around her to stop her for now.

"I won't last," he whispered. "Just... give me a moment."

He tentatively joined her on the bed again and Kyrie instantly pressed herself against him in a silent bid to continue. He kissed her deeply and suddenly rolled himself onto his back, pulling Kyrie on top of him while concentrating his focus on her sensitive breasts again.

"You take control," he rasped, "You decide the pace."

He lifted her a bit and slowly lowered her again, right on top of him, allowing her to take him inside of her the way it felt good for her. Kyrie moaned at the sensation of his warmth filling her. Okay, bit sensitive, but oh... it felt so good! Sherlock carefully pulled her into his arms to briefly just hold her closed to him. He then kissed her forehead, her brows, her eyelids, her cheeks and finally her soft opened mouth.

"It seems like forever since I last held you like this," he whispered, right before pulling a sensitive nipple into his mouth.

Kyrie arched her back in answer to his comment, feeling the dull aching pain of unfulfilled desire throb inside of her.

When his fingers touched her to where there bodies were joined, she moaned in appreciation. Her eyes locked with his, transferring her growing desire, as she slowly started to move against him. She bit her lower lip when she noticed a slight discomfort, but the pleasure was far more prevalent. She was careful though and prolonged their pleasure with long, slow, languid movements. Sherlock started to pant for breath as she made love to him and rode him, a carefree abandon gripping her. She touched him seductively, tracing her fingers over his hardened nipples, his ribs... his taut stomach.

It was a new experience because Sherlock usually was the one in firm control. Kyrie had to admit, seeing him writhe under her in pleasure, able to see every look of pleasure and desire that crossed his features, it was a heady and thrilling experience.

As she kept his gaze captive, took one of his hands and placed it on her body, inviting him to touch her. He did and she held her breath when he expertly started to play his favourite instrument. She sucked a harsh breath between her teeth at the tingling sensations that coursed through her body.

She moaned and panted for breath, only half aware what she was doing when she planted her hands next to his face and leaned closer to him. His mouth instantly closed over one of her breasts and she cried out his name when he started to move his hips a bit sharper against her body.

Her delirious plea made him grab her buttocks and he spurred her on, taking her to previous unexplored heights. In the midst of their flight, Sherlock raised himself up against her, taking a bit more control by driving himself into her, over and over and over again.

She sobbed out his name right before she shattered, taking Sherlock right along with her. He gasped near her ear and as he pulsed inside of her, Kyrie buried her face in his neck and silently cried. The intensity of her orgasm had caught her off guard and overwhelmed her.

He sighed a deep sigh of absolute contentment and lowered them both back to bed, pulling Kyrie securely against his chest. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head as her fingers lightly caressed his arm.

"Are you okay?" he whispered softly. "I- Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head. "No," she answered shakily. "That was amazing. Sorry... left over pregnancy hormones I guess..."

"It's okay," he murmured. He then chuckled. "I'm so relaxed I can barely lift my arms."

"Do try," she pleaded. "I like having them around me."

He immediately obliged and wrapped his arms around her. As their breathing evened out, his chest rose slowly and steady beneath her. Her hand stole upwards until her fingers carded through his curls. If she hadn't been so completely satisfied, and tired, she would have giggled at the expression of pure bliss on his face.

"Hmm," he managed to hum softly. It was the last sound he made before they both fell asleep.

SSS

Sherlock was showing her around the house at Wesley Street. Kyrie tried to ignore the hopeful looks that he was giving her. He watched her face for any signs of approval.

"I know, the kitchen is horrible. What the hell were they thinking! You should have seen the horrendous paintings... But we can easily replace the kitchen and we no longer have to deal with the previous owner's junk."

Kyrie smiled at the disdain in his voice. He was right though, the paintings she'd seen on the pictures had been ghastly! They'd ranged from meaningless splotches of paint on canvas, to dancing pigs.

"I don't like the kitchen counter smack dab in the middle of the kitchen area."

Sherlock gave it a dismissive wave of his hand. "Like I said, horrible kitchen; we'll get rid of it. And this alcove here..." he gestured at a small alcove in the wall with a few shelves that probably had been used to put photographs and other knick knacks.

"... we can put up some bookshelves so you always have your recipe books at hand. Now..." He marched to the adjoined living room. "We'll add a wall with double doors here, I do like to be able to separate the kitchen from the living room. The living room has a lot of potential though. Look at the space! Oh and look!" he walked to the door at the end of the room. "There's a small patio outside. Nice little place for a bit of tea!"

Kyrie bit her lip to keep from laughing as Sherlock was practically bouncing up and down with excitement. He motioned her to follow him so he could show her the rest of the house. She recognised the restraint he applied to not drag her along, out of fear she would lose her balance and stumble.

"Here's the library study. Plenty of room for all my books, see? And look, to the left there's room left for your books. There's even a cosy fireplace. So..." he took a few steps. "My armchair goes here." He gave her a look. "I do insist on that, I want my own armchair. Just like in Baker Street."

"I agree completely..." Kyrie said amiably, "... on the condition that I get an armchair as well, right in front of it. Just like in Baker Street."

Sherlock gave her a crooked smile. "I think that can be arranged." He then guided her to another room. Kyrie followed him at a gentle pace, mindful of the precious bundle in her arms.

"You could use this room for your hobbies. Or we could turn it into a playroom for St John, plenty of time to decide."

He showed her a second study with a large desk built against the wall. "I'm thinking... microscope and lab equipment here. That way, you no longer have to nag about me leaving my equipment on the kitchen table."

Kyrie snorted with laughter. "I don't know," she said, smiling fondly at him. "I think I'd miss the chaos."

"I can always leave some vials and experiments lingering about if you want." He grinned at her, his eyes glinting green with amber sparks lighting them.

"Please do," she said, stealing a quick kiss from his lips. "But, I would appreciate it if you'd store your more 'bloody' experiments in something else than the fridge where I keep our food. And no volatile substances in this house."

"Second fridge, I can make that work. And fine... I will store most of my chemicals at Baker Street."

Kyrie arched a brow at him. "Most?"

He gave her a cheeky grin before ushering her along.

The master bedroom was much larger than the one in Baker Street. Lots of natural light falling in through the tall windows. It had an en-suite bathroom that made Kyrie swoon. The only thing missing was a walk-in closet.

"You'd have plenty of room here for your dressing table, but, if you prefer a walk-in closet, I'll get you one," Sherlock murmured in her ear as he stood right behind her, his arms gently looping around hers as she cradled their precious little bundle close against her chest.

"How is our little man?" he asked softly.

"Still fast asleep," Kyrie muttered softly. "We have about an hour left before our little lord will demand to be fed."

"Enough time then to show you one last thing."

Kyrie followed him through the townhouse, climbing a few stairs and gasped in surprise when she stepped outside on a spacious roof terrace.

"It doesn't look like much now," Sherlock said apologetically, tapping his foot against the dirty, weathered wooden boards. "That ugly u-shaped sofa will have to go of course and I want a difference fence, but... this place has a lot of potential, don't you think?"

For a moment, Kyrie couldn't speak at all. She closed her eyes when she felt tears stinging them and just enjoyed the soft breeze playing with a few locks of her hair.

"Kyrie?" Sherlock asked after a while.

"It's perfect, Sherlock," she whispered.

He was silent for a moment. "Are you sure? I know I didn't run this past you before getting this place. We could always sell and look for something else."

Kyrie snorted. "No, we'd never get something even remotely like this at such a favourable distance from Baker Street."

"So...?"

She turned around and beamed up at him. "We're home."

A slow grin spread on his face before he tilted her chin to claim his lips with hers. He stepped a bit too close however, startling St John awake who instantly protested at the threat of getting squashed by his parents.

"Oh, hush you," Sherlock admonished him with a chuckle. "I wasn't standing _that_ close to mummy!"


	125. House Warming Party

**A/N It's here guys! Last chapter of my story. There's still an epilogue coming up and also a companion piece about St John.**

 **Thank you, for all of your support and reviews throughout these last few months. It's taken me about seven months to write and complete this fic. And at first I pretty much did so non stop! Your kind words and thoughts always got me through those rough patches when I just didn't feel like writing anymore.**

 **I hope you guys will like this ending. I know summer is around the corner, I'm certainly feeling the rise in temperature, but I do hope you will stick with me for these last 3 chapters; this one, the companion piece and the epilogue. Please don't stop reviewing!**

 **Crazythinking I did find your recent reviews on my Mass Effect story. As I'm not updating that story (it's complete) I hope you will read my comment here. I agree there are way too little GarrusxOC fics and I'm glad you loved mine. I loved writing Dani and Garrus! These two stories will always have a special place in my heart. I do hope you will also leave me a review for this story. I would certainly appreciate it!**

SSS

Hmm... the spicy elements of Boucheron's __Jaïpur__ drifted up from somewhere very close nearby. Like... next to her face close.

A smile curved her lips when Kyrie forced open one eye.

"You smell really nice," she murmured sleepily, not really in the mood to fully wake up yet. Sherlock however had other plans.

"Good morning." His deep voice softly rumbled near her ear. Kyrie sighed in contentment when she felt his lips curve into a smile against the skin underneath her ear.

"Happy birthday."

That was more than enough to fully wake her. Kyrie bolted upright, causing Sherlock to chuckle at her. She blinked her eyes a few times and only then noticed that Sherlock looked all ready to go out. His curls still looked a bit damp; he was completely dressed, freshly shaven – ah, hence the moderate application of _Jaïpur_ – and he was already wearing a scarf and his greatcoat.

"Sherlock, you know perfectly well it's not my birthday and... where are you going?" Kyrie asked him curiously, taking in his appearance.

"Well, there _is_ a birthday coming up soon, just not yours. And I'm going to Baker Street. John and I are working on a case and after that we're meeting up with a new client."

"But...!" Kyrie started in alarm.

"Don't worry. We will be back long before the house warming party starts and Mycroft is taking out St John for a bit of bird watching."

His eyes drifted down to her swollen belly and he placed a tender hand on it. "We will be gone for only a few hours. If something happens or, just if you need something – anything – just call me."

Sherlock then suddenly procured a little box from behind his back. "And now... your 'not your birthday' present."

Kyrie blushed profusely when she accepted the delicate box. She could already see the logo of his go-to jeweller whenever he wanted to splurge and spoil her rotten. Kyrie had quite a nice collection by now. Though she wore the more elaborate pieces whenever Sherlock had not been able to talk them out of a party or formal event, she preferred her diamond halo earrings and matching necklace. Those two pieces would always remain the most special to her; she wore them daily and she took painstaking care in making sure they looked sparkly and brand-spanking new each and every day.

She gasped when she opened the box and saw a piece of art lying on a velvet cushion. It was a two-tone gold bracelet. Each link resembled a leaf with a regular link between each two leaves. There were three charms– each with a different gemstone – attached to the bracelet.

Kyrie looked from the small gold amulet, with a sapphire gem in its setting, to Sherlock, her brows raised in question.

"It's a birthstone. September. For St John."

She then moved on to the second charm, a gold heart with an intricate engraving and a marvellously cut tanzanite stone, sparkling blue and violet depending on which way you turned it. She smiled, already knowing the thought behind that particular dangle.

"That one represents you; it took me a long time to find a tanzanite stone with just that particular colour."

"Oh... what's this?" she asked quietly, trying to hide the fact she was on the verge of tears yet again.

"Well, as your husband I thought I should also have a representation in your 'Happy family' bracelet."

She chuckled at the words. "I got that, but... I've never seen a stone like this. What is it?"

"Ah," Sherlock mumbled, sounding a bit abashed. "I wasn't entirely sure about what form my own representation should be. I chose eye colour as well, but um, yeah, weird eyes. Sorry, I know it's not very accurate. It's a cripple creek turquoise."

Kyrie looked at the light blue stone with flecks of deep green and golden sparkles. It was set in a simple, elegant, but unpretentious setting.

"It's beautiful and absolutely perfect, thank you!"

Holding the bracelet in her hand, she curled up against him for a hug.

"Once this little one is born, I will find a suitable charm as well. Or you can pick one for yourself, if..."

Kyrie shook her head against his shoulder. "No, you do it," she whispered. "You always know exactly what to pick."

Sherlock hummed, sounding rather pleased with himself. He carefully pulled back. "I really have to go now. Remember, if anything happens; if you need anything or just want to talk..."

"I'll call you. Don't worry about us; we'll be fine."

He smiled and gave her a kiss, before bending over and pressing a kiss to her belly. He laughed when the baby kicked. "Good morning to you too, my little one. I hope you slept well, though I should reprimand you for keeping mummy up almost all night again."

Kyrie sighed contentedly when Sherlock pulled her into his arms again. She then rolled her eyes when she felt, more than she could feel, Sherlock's rumbling laugh. "Maybe this one will take more after you."

"Somehow I doubt it, when I look at St John and you, I have a feeling that any children we have will completely take after you."

"I hope not," he said softly. "I'm hoping for at least one girl who takes wholly after her mother; with your hair, your eyes and your disposition."

He sighed and pulled back for the second time, this time he also got to his feet. He pressed a husbandly kiss against her cheek, but hesitated when he caught sight of a blasted little tear that had managed to escape.

"Pregnancy hormones?" he asked tentatively.

Kyrie smiled and nodded her head. "Yes! Just go, you silly man, before you completely reduce me to tears and I won't be able to do a thing! I know Mary is coming over to help prepare for the party, but she's about ready to pop as well. I'd really like to be able to do _something_!"

Sherlock grinned at her and headed for the door. He turned back one last time. "Just make sure to use the downstairs kitchen. And I don't want either Mary or you trudging up and down the stairs to bring everything to the roof terrace. Me and John will take care of that."

"Not so fast, Sherlock!" Kyrie called him back when he went through the doorway.

He gave her a begrudging look, probably already knowing exactly what she wanted of him.

"I know there's little to no use to ask you for the keys. If you want to go into the house, I know you'll find a way. But... I worked really hard to keep the living room and the study a surprise. Promise me you won't take a peek?"

"Fine!" Sherlock said. His shoulders drooped when he looked at her and Kyrie tried to keep her smile at bay while giving him the doe-eyes. "I promise I won't sneak inside the townhouse to see what you did, okay?"

"Thank you, Sherlock," she said happily.

"You little witch..." he muttered before he finally managed to get out of the flat.

SSS

"... and he hasn't seen this living room yet? Or his study?" Mary asked, looking around the place.

Kyrie had turned Sherlock's study into a small replica of their living room at Baker Street. Though she had not been able to find the exact same armchairs, the ones standing in the study came pretty darn close.

Kyrie had not bothered to find a new 'Billy' to place on the fireplace mantle. She had gone through great lengths though to find just the right kind of butterfly and moth display that she was after, not feeling the need to have a dead bat staring at her whenever she occupied the study.

She was particularly proud of the real mounted Death Head moth taxidermy display. That would just have to be enough to substitute the essence of the macabre that one could find in the Baker Street living room.

Anthea had given her a lot of help in finding – and procuring – some other elements that were necessary to recreate the cosy and chaotic atmosphere of Baker Street.

The living room in the Wesley Street townhouse was different. For that, Kyrie had chosen a comfortable but more elegant design, but still with enough opportunities for Sherlock to clutter the place with his knick-knacks and gadgets.

"He hasn't. He's great at pretending, but trust me... if he has seen this already, I'd definitely know," Kyrie said while cutting out a news article. She'd never stopped collecting news articles about her family.

Mary beamed at her. "I think it's wonderful! Can't believe it took you guys nearly three years to get this place ready though."

Kyrie shrugged her shoulders. "Sherlock's initial plan was to hurry the renovation after St John was born, but once he was there... we just kind of stalled. With this one on the way though..."

She gently rubbed her belly before smoothing over the article with her hands, making sure the glue would spread and dry evenly.

Mary laughed. "It's still weird sometimes, seeing Sherlock so..."

"Normal?"

They both chuckled.

Mary's eyes gained a bit of a distant look. "I still remember Sherlock when we just met... He interrupted John's proposal and just assumed John would be over the moon to find him alive. He seemed so _alien_ at times."

"Trust me, he still _can_ be," Kyrie laughed. "Do you think they will ever get tired of chasing criminals and solving cases?"

"I think their minds will never get tired of that, but, at some point even _they_ will have to agree to leave that sort of stuff for the next generation."

Kyrie held up the album and smiled lovingly, looking at the article. "Well, I'm fairly certain St John, especially now, will have every intention of following in his father's footsteps. I do hope he will find his 'Boswell', like Sherlock did."

Mary smiled, her eyes drifting to the news article in the album. "So, how many bird sounds does he know?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Kyrie said, placing the album on a dresser near the wall. "I didn't even know he can recognise them. I knew he loves birds of course, but, he's only three years old..."

"... and Sherlock's son. Honestly Kyrie, I do wonder why this surprises you."

"He's three!"

"I know! Aw, but just look at his precious little face," Mary cooed, walking over to look at the picture that accompanied the news article. "He looks as indignant as his dad. I can see St John already dislikes the press as much as Sherlock used to. But look at the proud look on Sherlock's face!"

She did, and felt all warm and fuzzy inside again. He was such a wonderful father, much to the surprise of a lot of people! Even when Sherlock doubted his own parenting skills, Kyrie was always there to remind him he was doing just great. By now, St John was very familiar with the kind of support he could expect from his parents. Anything that had to do with emotions was Kyrie's area. Pretty much everything else, St John could ask his father. Except maybe when it came to astronomy. But, if Sherlock couldn't supply his inquisitive son with an immediate answer, they'd both look up it on the internet until St John's curiosity was satisfied. For the moment at least.

Her gaze lingered on the news article one last moment, focussing on the headline: SON OF NET DETECTIVE SOLVES FIRST CASE AT THE AGE OF THREE.

On the picture, Sherlock was holding up St John on his arm, who'd been very tired of all the media attention by then. Sherlock had this aloof look on his face, but that didn't fool Kyrie one bit. The proud set of his shoulders, his chin slightly jutting forward, and the sparkle in his eyes that was unmistakable – even on a blurry black and white picture – they said it all.

Best thing was that both of her men were sporting a deer stalker and St John was glaring from underneath it with as dark a look on his face as his dad had when his deerstalker picture had first graced the newspapers.

It had been the strangest thing. Sherlock had been working on a case. Harry Gardner had been killed. Greg Lestrade was sure the murder had been committed by Harry's younger brother, Reginald, out of jealousy. Harry had inherited an estate and a large sum of money from an estranged relative while his younger brother had been forced to be content with but a pittance.

The will had appointed Reginald as the succeeding heir in case Harry was unable to inherit. It should have been an open and shut case with such a clear motive, but the police could find no evidence to support it and also Reginald had an alibi.

Reginald had tried to call his brother to cancel a meeting because he'd fallen ill and left him voice mail message using the phone in his hotel room, 40 miles away from where his brother was getting killed at that same moment.

The date and time of the call was registered, there was a recording of it and the staff of the hotel confirmed that Reginald never left his room that day. The police had been stumped and Lestrade had asked Sherlock for assistance. Sherlock had gone over every bit of evidence, but there was nothing that could tie Reginald to the scene of the crime. The killer had left no prints on the bronze statue that was used as a murder weapon, not even a hair had been found that was out of place.

With the phone call placing Reginald in a completely different location at the time of the murder, there was no probable cause and a search warrant was denied. Sherlock had then been burdened with the task to find probable cause.

In the end, it was St John who had found it.

Kyrie was getting St John ready for bed. Sherlock had been in a foul mood all day and he sat in his armchair, listening to the damned call over and over again. He had complained the entire day. How was he supposed to find probable cause when the phone call gave Reginald an airtight alibi? Still, Kyrie knew that something about the call was bothering him. Something was in there and Sherlock just couldn't find it yet.

St John tottered over to Sherlock to demand a fatherly good night kiss on his head when he got distracted by a sound he heard on the recording of the phone call.

"Nightjar!" he exclaimed excitedly.

Sherlock slowly raised his eyes to regard his young son.

"Nightjar?" he repeated slowly.

St John nodded his head and he bounced on the balls of his feet in excitement.

"The bird! I want to see the nightjar, daddy. Can I? Please?" St John then turned his head and gave his mother his best pout. "Can I stay up late just this once? It's a night bird, mummy."

"Night bird..." Sherlock repeated the words of his son. He then moved his laptop to one knee and picked up St John to plop him down on his other knee. The boy gave his mother a triumphant toothy grin. Kyrie shook her head at him, but she didn't say anything.

"St John, can you tell me more about this... nightjar? I can't promise I can take you to see the nightjar, but I _can_ promise to take you and mummy to Kent so we can all do a bit of bird watching. How does that sound?"

St John instantly told his father everything he knew about the nightjar. Including the nice little fact that it was a nocturnal bird who's distinctive 'churr', like the sound in the recording, could only be heard at dusk and dawn. Meaning, the phone call was fake as it should have taken place mid day. It was a pre-made recording, meaning... Reginald had an accomplice who had made the call for him, while Reginald had his hands free to murder his brother.

Probable cause found, search warrant issued... though no evidence had been found on the crime scene, it turned out there was plenty to be found on the clothes that Reginald had neglected to get rid of. Soon the two culprits had been arrested, Reginald and his brother's wife. And of course, a very proud Sherlock promptly made sure that his son received all the credit for solving the case.

They'd subsequently spent a lovely weekend in Kent where Sherlock had spent the days with his wife and son at a dedicated bird observatory at Dungeness. And at night, he'd proven once again that, despite her growing belly and the need to be careful around a youngster who was smart as a tack, he could still take Kyrie to glorious heights.

Hearing Mary's chuckle, Kyrie could feel her cheeks flush and she quickly turned around to walk back to clear away the mess she'd made on the coffee table. She then walked across the living room towards the kitchen where various bowls and plates filled with delicious looking food, cluttered the surface of a grand kitchen table.

"We certainly did our best, Mare. Think it will be enough?"

"There's enough here to feed an entire army. Though, granted, John's appetite alone could count for that of an entire army..."

Both women laughed and they rubbed their expanding bellies simultaneously.

"Let's have a seat before the mayhem begins," Kyrie sighed.

"Good idea," Mary agreed as they both waddled over to the sofa.

It seemed like a mere blink and a sigh later before the first guests started to drop by. Sherlock and John managed to show up in time as well. From the glistening in his eyes, Kyrie could tell that her husband was very happy and moved with what she'd done with the two rooms she'd been allowed to furnish at her every whim and desire.

As they'd agreed, those rooms would be done last, so they could both be involved together with furnishing the rest of the house.

Mummy and Daddy had surprised them by offering them the rest of the furniture that had survived the fire at Musgrave Hall. Mycroft had surprised them even more by offering to look after St John while they were busy at the house.

Kyrie had been in charge of St John's bedroom, one floor up above theirs while she gave Sherlock full reign of the nursery. Though it had been a bit of a sore point when she'd been pregnant with St John, she had to admit she'd not have been able to do a better job. This time, Sherlock made sure to run everything past Kyrie. As they did not know the gender of their little one this time around, they had settled for a cheery yellow nursery.

Mummy and Daddy were the first to arrive, with Mummy carrying a mysterious box that, according to her, contained some of Kyrie's possessions that had been left behind years ago.

Then Molly and Jonathan arrived, Jonathan with a bashful little smile on his face while Molly promptly made her way over to Kyrie and Mary to show off her engagement ring, a ridiculously happy smile nearly splitting her face in two.

Mrs Hudson was invited as well of course, along with Greg Lestrade and Philip Anderson. In Kyrie's mind, Philip had long made up for his past transgressions, but Sally Donovan remained a persona non grata and was not welcome in her home.

Janine Hawkins and her sister Kathryn were invited as well and if any animosity still existed between Kathryn and Jonathan, no one could tell as they treated each other most amiably.

The party was complete when a slightly disheveled Mycroft appeared with young St John in tow. Despite his disheveled look however, Mycroft's eyes were shining brightly and a slight little smile managed to tug up the corners of his lips.

The little boy, a mop of dark curls on his head, catapulted himself into the group of people when he spotted his grandparents who were more than happy to devote all of their attention to him.

It was a bit crowded when Sherlock led their guests on a tour around the house, Kyrie quickly gave him a reassuring smile that she was fine. She was however quite relieved when every one of their guests had made their way to the roof terrace, giving her a brief moment alone in the kitchen to catch her breath.

When two arms suddenly enveloped her from behind, Kyrie smiled when soft, searching lips started to explore the curve of her neck.

"The tour is over," Sherlock murmured against her skin. "John took care of the drinks and he's starting up the barbecue as we speak. John and I will take up the food and then everyone can bloody well fend for themselves. I know you like to take care of people, but tonight you only get to take care of two."

He placed his hand on her belly so there could be no mistake of who he was referring to. Sherlock gently turned her around, and, even before his mouth captured hers, Kyrie had already been able to read his intent in his eyes.

Her own eyelids slowly came downwards as she yielded her lips to his. The kiss was gentle and questing, with his mouth slowly moving over hers. Kyrie rose against him, moulding herself more intimately to his body.

Sherlock chuckled before he released her and stole one last mischievous little kiss from her lips. His gaze then fell upon the box his mother had brought with her. His curiosity evidently piqued, he walked over to the box and opened it to peruse its contents.

She gasped in delight when Sherlock held up her well read copy of 'Pride and Prejudice'.

"I wondered about that!" she said, taking the small book from his hands. "Did you know, I brought this with me when I first visited your parents all those years ago."

The smile faltered on her lips. She'd been reading from that very book the night that Gerulf... She shook her head. No, Gerulf was dead. He could no longer hurt her or her family and she was very happy right now.

When Sherlock made no comment about her sudden change in mood, she looked up at him and found him staring at something that looked like a ticket in his hand. His hand was trembling slightly, but it was the look on his face that slightly alarmed Kyrie.

His face was pale as a sheet, his eyes were blown wide open and his nostrils flared nervously.

"Sherlock?" she said tentatively, trying to gently draw his attention.

She could see his Adam's apple move up and down as he swallowed hard. Wordlessly, he handed her the ticket.

Kyrie frowned when she took it from his hand, wondering what on Earth could be the cause of his current distress. When she looked at the ticket, she still found no reason for his inexplicable mood. It was a ticket of a performance of Carmen at New York's Metropolitan Opera. She smiled slightly.

"Wow, Elīna Garanča was starring in that production," she said. "I was very excited to go."

"But you didn't," Sherlock rasped, his voice hoarse and thick with emotion.

Kyrie blinked her eyes at him. "No, I didn't..." she admitted.

"Why not?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but the words wouldn't come. She stared at the date that was stamped on the ticket. Friday April 23, 2010.

"It's the weekend I visited your parents," she said softly.

Sherlock's silence told her to continue, even though Kyrie was certain he already knew everything he needed to know, just by looking at the date... and realising its meaning.

"I was supposed to visit them, right after New York." She took a deep breath. "When I called your mother to confirm the date, I could hear that... she was upset. Your father was celebrating his birthday that weekend, Mycroft wasn't certain he'd be able to make it and..."

Kyrie clamped her mouth shut.

"... And I had told her I would not be coming. I used John's break up with Sarah, right after their trip to New Zealand, as an excuse not to have to go." Sherlock gave her a pointed look. "You weren't even supposed to be there that weekend."

"No," she said. "I wasn't."

"You, having lost your own parents, couldn't stand the thought of a son not bothering to show up on his father's birthday, so you gave up on seeing this... this..."

"Elīna Garanča," Kyrie offered.

"Her... to visit my parents to offer what comfort and support you could... because I point blank refused to go. And because of that, Mycroft did what he could to make sure at least he'd be there, even if that meant having to bring his business associate along with him."

Sherlock put his hands over his mouth and Kyrie could see he was switching over to 'panic mode'.

" _I'm_ the reason Mycroft brought Gerulf along with him. _I'm_ the reason he assaulted you. If I'd been a bit more considerate as a son, he never would have laid his eyes on... and he never would have..."

His voice started to crack and Kyrie quickly made her way over to him.

"Shh," she urged him, taking his face between her hands. "If you'd been a bit more considerate as a son, we never would have met. And, even if we had... things would not have worked out for us the way they did. I'm very happy with where I am now and whom I'm with. I regret nothing, Sherlock. Not even the way we met."

"How can you say that, knowing _I_ was the direct cause of... that night?"

"Because every day I spend with you adds to my happiness, subtracts from my sadness, and multiplies my joy. I love you, you idiot! When can you just accept that and be happy with it?"

"I _have_ been an idiot," he said. "At every turn and twist of the road. And each time, for reasons I still can't fathom, you forgave me and let me back in."

Kyrie gazed up into his eyes that, at the moment, were swimming with uncertainty. "Do you love me, Sherlock Holmes?" she asked him.

"You know I do," was all he could manage.

"That's all I want and all I will ever need."

Kyrie gasped a bit, then chuckled and she pressed his hand over the place where their baby was moving in her womb. "Do you feel him?"

"I can feel _her_. This time we'll have a daughter."

"And you know this because...?"

"Because at the moment I can't imagine not having a daughter who'll be just like her mother. A busy little squirrel, isn't she?" Sherlock, thankfully his old self again, commented with a chuckle when the baby gave him a little nudge against his hand.

"I don't mind," Kyrie replied and sighed contentedly. "It reassures me that all is well."

Sherlock placed a doting kiss upon her brow. "It took me some time to figure it all out, but, yes, all is well. Because you are at my side, where you've always belonged and where you should always be."

"Like swans," Kyrie murmured happily, remembering Daddy Holmes' words a long time ago, words that had comforted her when she had needed it most and paved the way to her current happiness.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed softly.

THE END

Don't forget... there's still an epilogue coming up!


	126. St John's First Case

**A/N I've decided to –- instead of making this a companion piece –- to add this to the main story. This way you don't have to switch between stories (with an epilogue still following) and hopefully all of my readers will actually notice I've posted this. Sorry it took so long to get this out. I haven't written at all these past two weeks due to my father's declining health and, last Sunday, his passing.**

 **Anyway, this is St John's first actual case. It's based on a plot I've written years ago for a creative writing course. Since the original setting was a bit in the past, I struggled a bit to bring the story into the future. It's not perfect but I still think it's a nice set up for St John taking over from his dad. Anyway, the story starts with the introduction of the suspects, the victim last seen alive, St John talking with a few suspects before the big reveal.**

 **Oh, I forgot to mention, Cynthia's mention of the 'squints' is borrowed from 'Bones' of course!**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

 **SSS**

Harper Burman sighed deeply and he wiped his face with a large handkerchief. Having a bit of a pudgy physique was not at all fun in this kind of hot weather, especially if you were not used to it.

Even though the sun had barely freed itself from its earthly bed, a clammy warmth, enhanced by a brief downpour during the night, had already stolen inside their Hansom cab replica. Harper cursed his wife to hell and back for insisting on using this inferior, severely out of date method of transport, claiming it was 'romantic'.

He groaned in dismay, thinking about the much faster and way more comfortable Bullet. The long multiple hour drive could have been cut to maybe just the one.

Harper glanced at his wife, Shelly Winters, a dark scowl on his face. She did not seem to suffer from anything at all, of course.

The carriage continued to bump and sway over the dusty country lane, protected by English Heritage. Because of the dust that blew in through the open window, Harper's nose started to itch, but Shelly did not seem to be bothered by it in the least.

He made another feeble attempt to close the window, but there were no buttons to press, no activation pads and he'd already found out that voice command was out of the question as well.

If Shelly was at all aware of his plight, she showed no signs of it. No, she merely had this look of utter bliss on her face, as if she personally witnessed creation come into being.

Harper glanced at the sunlight that shone on his wife's auburn hair. It was frizzing rather badly and looked as if a bird had chosen it for nesting. Years ago, when he'd been infatuated with her uncommon beauty, those same frizzy locks had felt like strands of silk gliding through his fingers. If he were to card his fingers through her hair now, he knew it would feel like pawing straw.

"Beautiful isn't it, darling?" Shelly asked him softly. Harper followed her gaze towards the enormous estate that slowly arose in front of them. _Sure, rub it in even deeper_... He folded his arms and gave his wife an unforgiving look.

"I'm quite partial to our own mansion myself. Really, I don't understand why this dark and gloomy construction appeals to you so much," he sneered. "In fact, I don't understand a thing about the Regency Revival Movement this past decade or so."

Shelly turned and smiled sweetly at her husband. "I was actually talking about the sky, honey. Look at how magnificently clear and blue it is. And I do understand this yearning for days long past. The way we've depleted Mother Earth, how we rush through our lives with hardly a chance to breath. Say what you will, but times used to be so much simpler, even if they came with their own hardships."

Of course Shelly was talking about the bloody blue sky again. If it wasn't that, it was the green grass, the tall trees or the buzzing bees. It was a miracle those flying pests had managed to avoid extinction. Ever since the late tens and early twenties there had been worries about the steady decline in bees and other pollinators. As if he cared. They could all die out for as far as he was concerned. Surely bees dying out couldn't be as bad a problem as everyone made it seem. He for one would be glad to be permanently rid of them.

Unfortunately, some overblown arsehole who thought way too much of himself, had brought the plight of the bees under national attention. And because he used to be some kind of famous person in his glory days, England had rallied to his cause ' _en masse_ _'_ , when the cries for help by unknown beekeepers had fallen on deaf ears for years. Blasted Sherlock Holmes...

"You really do not feel like going to Lady Kensington's party, are you?" Shelly asked him as she casually slid her hand over his knee.

"In the mood for the party, yes. In the mood for having to spend the day before the party with Tim bloody Burman... no," Harper said, suppressing his urge to pull his leg away from the unwanted touch of his wife's clawing fingers.

"We're not there for Tim, Harper," his wife reminded him sharply, "But for Deirdre."

She didn't have to remind him. Tim would never be a reason for Harper to honour his estate with a visit. There was no love lost between them and he knew the feeling was absolutely mutual.

Harper nervously gnawed at his nails. Still, he had to try and butter up Tim a bit. He just had to find a way to persuade Tim to help him with his 'problem'. Even if that meant having to crawl through the dust and lick the dirt off his heels... Something he knew Tim would make him do anyway.

Harper gave Shelly a sideways glance. Her many bracelets softly tinkled against each other and a disgustingly overpowering scent drifted up from her silk scarf. Fragrances never responded well to her skin, yet she always bought the most expensive and heavy kind.

Shelly was still blissfully unaware of his little problem, but if Tim refused to help, that could soon well change. At least that would mark the end of those disgusting odours.

"A blessing in disguise..." Harper muttered.

"What did you say, darling?" Shelly asked him.

"Nothing dear, nothing at all," Harper replied, wondering how he ever could have said 'I do'.

SSS

Cynthia Burman watched as her boyfriend, Jason Manders, gently massaged her feet with his delicate hands. She enjoyed the warm weather and even more of the warmth of his company. No matter how beautiful her father's estate was, it was always lacking warmth.

Feeling lazy and very comfortable, Cynthia observed the patterns he made with his fingers. It was wonderful to sit here with Jason, in the terrace garden.

"Cynthia, honey. Uncle Harper and Aunt Shelly should arrive any moment now. Why don't you get changed?"

Cynthia looked up when she heard her mother's voice.

"Why should I? There's nothing wrong with the clothes I'm wearing now."

Her mother gave her a pleading look with her bright blue eyes and she jutted her bottom lip forward in a small pout. If it had been in her nature, this would have been a moment Cynthia would have smiled. To Cynthia her mother was the most beautiful woman to grace the earth, but on occasion she could be so childish and naive, Cynthia felt like the parent instead of the other way around.

"But honey, you look so dark and so bleak!" Her mother replied, disappointment evident in her voice. "And you do look so pretty when you make an effort. Why don't you wear that emerald dress? It really brings out your eyes."

Cynthia stuck out her tongue at Jason when she caught him smirking at her.

"My angel, do you think you can go and sit somewhere else? It is so stuffy inside at the moment. I'd really like to receive your aunt and uncle here in the garden."

Cynthia rolled her eyes and allowed herself to be dragged to her feet by a laughing Jason. That massage had simply felt too good for it to come to such a sudden stop.

She settled on a field near the terrace and leaned her head affectionately against Jason's shoulder. Her lips curled down a bit when she could feel the onset of depression setting in and she clenched her hands to fists as Jason gently stroked her hair.

What had she done to earn a family like this? Or to be more precise, a father like this? Why couldn't her parents be more like Jason's? Images of his mother and father flooded her mind... His mother, with beautiful strawberry blond hair, a wealth of freckles on a face that always seemed to be smiling. And his father, with the same sandy coloured hair his son had inherited, who simply doted on his wife.

"I hate him, you know that, don't you?" Cynthia asked him softly.

She could feel Jason nodding his head against the top of hers. Of course he instantly knew who she was talking about.

"I got less again last month," she murmured. "He just can't accept the fact I want to go into Medical School and not into business. This is just his way of revenge. Honestly? I can't wait for him to die. At least then I'll get what I'm entitled to. He never was a father to me anyway."

When she felt Jason's muscles stiffen underneath her touch, she looked up in surprise. Surely he shared her opinion? Only then did she notice the reason. One of the maids, carrying a tray with tea things, looked at her with a horrified look on her face. Just great.

"What are you looking at, you stupid cow!" Cynthia exclaimed, "Just do your job. You're not paid to stand there and gawk at me."

The maid murmured something unintelligible and quickly made her leave. Suddenly feeling very tired, Cynthia blew out a deep breath of air and let herself fall backwards onto the green blanket of grass.

"Mea culpa!"

"No," Jason said as he tickled Cynthia with a blade of grass under her nose, "Carpe diem."

"Seize the day, for tomorrow we die," Cynthia whispered.

"Or someone else," Jason whispered.

SSS

"No, not that. Absolutely not. No way... Not that either." Deirdre Burman heaved a deep sigh as she stood in front of her large wardrobe. With exasperated movements, she rejected one dress after another. Harper and Shelly could arrive any moment now and she had absolutely nothing to wear to make a good impression.

She lowered her arms in despair. Her current mood had nothing to do with a lacking wardrobe and everything to do with herself. She was well aware of that. Deirdre had been unhappy and depressed for so long, she didn't even know when it had started. With a huff she snapped her fingers and the doors closed. What she wouldn't give for a wardrobe with doors you could manually open and close! That way she could slam them!

Ugh, why had she sold her soul to the devil? She blinked her eyes in agitation, then walked to the bedroom window. If she stood on her toes, she could just make out the figures of Jason and Cynthia. Cynthia, her darling angel... So young, so few things to worry about, yet so dissatisfied with life.

Dissatisfaction... a feeling that continued to grow in this house like a cancer. A tumour that originated from Tim, then had affected herself and now also her daughter!

A sudden surge of anger made Deirdre slam her hand against the wooden panels of the wardrobe. Somehow she had a feeling that slamming a door closed would have given her a lot more satisfaction, but this would have to suffice.

She knew she'd made many mistakes of her life, the biggest one her marriage to an ill-mannered boar, but why should her daughter have to pay for her mistakes? She _had_ to talk to Tim again and this time he would listen! Whether he liked it or not!

Tim was allowed to use all of her sins against her, but not against her daughter. Never against her daughter!

She clenched her hands to fists.

"Enough. You've opened my eyes to the world, Timothy Burman. And I'm not afraid any more."

The sound of sudden footsteps startled her. Who could it be? Had someone overheard her? She hated how she allowed her new found bravery to escape so readily and easily. Silently and very carefully, Deirdre walked over to the door and she moved a trembling hand over the sensor.

Thank goodness these ultra responsive sliding doors made absolutely no sound when they opened or closed. She guessed at least that was an advantage over the old-fashioned ones.

Robert?

A man who had just arrived at the top of the stairs, suddenly looked up and Deirdre realised she had said his name aloud. She bit her bottom lip and looked nervously at Tim's office right in front of the bedroom. Fortunately, that door remained closed.

"What are you doing here?" Deirdre whispered, afraid Tim would hear her otherwise. Robert Wyans approached her carefully, clutching his black doctor's bag firmly against his side.

"Your husband had a few vague complaints and insisted I stopped by before the party tonight," Robert whispered back.

"And you fell for that?"

"Quiet Deirdre! I have to, what else can I do? Have you heard anything else about...?"

Deirdre shook her head. "No, I haven't heard anything and I've found nothing. Don't let yourself be played for a fool. You know what he's like."

Robert nodded his head in the direction of the office.

"I'll just have a look at him, see what he wants now. Will you be there tonight?"

"Yes, I will be. I'm not sure about Tim, but I'll be there."

Robert smiled faintly. "I will see you then."

"Yes. Now go, quickly."

Carefully, Deirdre moved her hand over the sensor so the door closed again. A shiver ran down her spine and she pulled her robe closer around her. It didn't help. It wasn't the cold that made her shiver, but the foreboding feeling that something terrible was about to happen.

SSS

The sun was shining brightly in the sky and a pleasant floral scent drifted in the air on the wings of a gentle breeze. The garden was, as always, neatly maintained and the view of the magnificent old manor only contributed to the enjoyment of a lovely afternoon on the terrace.

Harper, Shelly and Deirdre enjoyed a lovely afternoon in each others company, although Deirdre did find the entire ambiance a bit stilted.

Cynthia was in the garden as well, together with her boyfriend Jason. They kept themselves to a small field, not too far from the elder people. Deirdre tried to keep an eye on them, but they were almost completely hidden behind a neatly trimmed hedge that surrounded the terrace.

"Thank you for allowing us to stay overnight, Deirdre. Otherwise it would have been such a long journey to Lady Kensington's estate," Shelly said in a friendly tone and took a sip of her fragrant blossom tea.

"It's no trouble at all," Deirdre replied with a dismissive gesture, "You guys stay with us every year for Lady Kensington's party. And it's always nice to have you over anyway."

Harper showed a cynical smile and Deirdre could feel her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"Of course you feel that way. That old bastard of yours if getting worse. I'm surprised we don't receive an invitation every week."

"So you can drink yourself to oblivion here for free, no doubt," Shelly said, looking at her husband with such a dark scowl that Deirdre tried her best to look everywhere else except at the man in front of her.

Harper, however, shrugged his shoulders in a nonchalant way, sipped his whiskey and lit a cigar. He was mighty glad that privately owned estates were still one of the few places one might indulge in such a vice.

"Come on, Deirdre," he said soothingly, "You must admit his mood is not improving. He would do everyone a great service by just expiring already."

Shelly clasped a hand to her mouth and Deirdre turned white as a sheet.

"Harper! You ill-bred lout! What a thing to say!" his wife hissed at him.

"No need for hypocrisy, dear heart," Harper sneered. "You told me the same thing last week. You just used different wording. Let's see if I can recall... 'If someone doesn't feed him rat poison soon, then I will.' Wasn't it something like that?"

Shelly's face turned beet red, to the roots of her fading red hair. "Not now, Harper!" she muttered under her breath.

"Oh, what does it matter, Shelly?" Deirdre sighed. "He's right. No one can stand Tim at the moment. If only he had other hobbies but just delighting himself in another one's misery."

"I really don't understand how you can put up with him, Deirdre," Shelly said, keeping her voice low. "Why don't you divorce him?"

Deirdre plucked at the fabric of her dress. "You think I wouldn't have, had it not been for the prenuptial agreement?" she said softly. "I was young and naive when I married him. His lawyer really did a good job. The moment we split, I won't see a dime. I guess I just got used to a certain way of living... something I don't want to give up. Not even to be free of him."

"Why don't you put something in his food or drink then?" Harper said with a laugh though no one else seemed to be particularly amused.

"Come on, he is diabetic. Even with today's medical advances, there's no cure for that. Can't you think of something more original?" they suddenly heard from behind the shrubbery. "Give him an extra shot of insulin, no one would be the wiser."

Three heads turned simultaneously in shock.

"I'm not sure I like all these things you learn, my angel," Deirdre said, her voice horrified. "You know entirely too much about poisons and drug interactions."

Cynthia's head appeared above the shrubbery. "But mum! I have to learn! I need to know which drugs can't be used with other drugs. Why, I could accidentally kill someone if I didn't!"

"All's good and well, dearie," Harper laughed. "You focus on your studies and we will have a friendly little chat soon. Did you know daddy is planning to cut your allowance again? He thinks you spend way too much money on loverboy over there."

"Wait... What? Mum! Tell me it isn't so! He can't! How am I supposed to pay my tuitions if that bastard keeps cutting in my funds?"

Deirdre didn't know where to look. She didn't dare to look her daughter in the eyes, something that just seemed to infuriate her more.

"You know what? That bastard can drop dead for all I care!"

Harper started laughing.

"Better yet... you can all drop dead!" she yelled and made movement to storm off.

"Tsk, tsk, such language!"

Everyone looked startled hearing that unexpected voice. Deirdre looked around and saw her husband standing in the middle of a lawn in the garden, along wit Dr Wyans. Tim looked impermissible as always. Of course, what did he care his daughter hated him and his wife despised him, Deirdre thought darkly.

Tim had lost a lot of weight lately and his countenance was pale and sickly. Still, judging the horrified looks around her, he still managed to fill them all with dread. Her poor angel looked as if she was about to faint.

"Where are your wisecracks now, eh? You little bitch! Well, you'll just have to wait a bit more before daddy croaks because daddy is healthy as a horse."

Tim clapped Dr Wyans between his shoulder blades, the latter only showing he did not appreciate the sentiment by grimacing uncomfortably.

Deirdre closed her eyes. Why did this lovely afternoon have to end in such a nightmare? Thank goodness they would be leaving soon for the party given by Dr Wyans and his wife, Lady Kensington. Tim would stay behind and that would finally give her some peace and quiet.

"I think perhaps I should cut you off completely. I don't like to waste my fortune on spiteful little ingrates. And you, Harper! You can go right to Hell! Think I don't know why you're here? Forget it! You'll see no more money from me! I've helped you out five times too many as it is."

With every word that came tumbling from Tim's lips, his face grew more red until it looked about ready to pop like an overripe zit.

Deirdre watched with morbid fascination. Was it finally about to happen...? But Tim recovered himself all too quickly and allowed Dr Wyans to escort him back towards the mansion. He turned around one last time though and whispered something near Deirdre's ears that was meant for her only. Deirdre could feel her blood drain from her cheeks when she heard his words.

"I know, you filthy little cunt!"

SSS

Olivia sauntered over towards the tall figure she saw casually leaning against a sleek looking car. A classic from the looks of it.

She tried not to look overly curious, but she couldn't help herself. This was someone she'd not seen in several years. Though his parents were her own parents closest friends, they'd seen less of them after their move to Sussex. And more and more often their eldest son had a way of making himself scarce during those visits.

When he turned his face and settled his eyes on her, Olivia was simply not prepared. For several long moments her mind became such a blank, that nothing at all registered. She blinked a few times to get her mind to working again.

"St John?" she gasped in utter surprise.

His mouth gently turned at the corners, making the strong, arrogant line of jaw a bit less severe. His nose was chiselled sharply, aquiline... proud. Very unlike his father's. For the rest it was like looking at a younger, taller, thinner copy of the famous detective. Same pale skin, same dark chocolate hair crowning his head in thick, unruly curls. But his eyes – God have mercy! – were like a purple thunderstorm and with just the barest the suggestion of a slant. Good Lord, had they always been this intense? She could scarcely remember.

It took her some time before she realised those exotic, hypnotic eyes – framed by black lashes and slashing brows – were taking her in with a glint of amusement. They were assessing her, as if he was trying to determine her mettle.

Olivia breathed in deeply, slowly, trying not to show too much that his appearance had completely caught her off guard.

"It's been a long time," she said hesitantly, feeling a bit uncomfortable under his scrutinising gaze.

"Indeed," he said simply, a slight smile forming on his generous lips. "So..." He turned his head in the direction of the large mansion. "What do you think of our fathers' notion that a Holmes should never be without a Watson?"

"Then I pity two of your siblings, since there are four of you and only two of us."

"With both of us being the only ones following in our fathers' footsteps, it's no wonder our parents are hoping for a collaboration."

"A collaboration?" Olivia scoffed. "Is that what you want to call this?"

St John shrugged his shoulders. It suddenly struck Olivia that St John looked every bit as aloof as his illustrious father in his younger years. She'd seen old photographs.

Olivia knew St John's dad still dressed the same way. Jacket, dress shirt, trousers, and of course his treasured greatcoat. She remembered that St John used to dress himself similarly, but now it seemed he was taking after his uncle, Mycroft Holmes. In ways of dress at least. He looked very much out of his time, with his moss green suit and silver satin vest, but he did cut a rather dashing figure and honestly... it did suit him.

"What would you want to call this then?" St John asked her.

"How about a partnership?" she suggested.

"Shouldn't we wait and see how we work together first?"

Olivia shrugged her shoulders. "I know you are much like your father and your uncle. I grew up with the stories and I grew up with _them_. You'll need someone like me around to keep you grounded."

St John raised his brows at her. "That's what you think I need? Grounding?"

She gave him a wry smile. "Most definitely. Plus, I think it would be nice to see Baker Street restored to its former glory."

"Think you can keep up with me?"

"That depends," Olivia shot back.

"On what?"

"If you think you can keep up with _me_!"

"How's the renovation going?"

"The renovation is none of your business. Shall we?"

St John pushed himself away from his car. "I think you should go back and pick a paint you actually like. After you," he said, sweeping his arm in front of him with a grand gesture.

"Okay, I guess that answers that question."

"What question?"

"If you're as good as your old man."

St John smirked at her and soon Olivia could hear his footsteps fall behind her.

SSS

St John motioned one of the investigators to activate the windows blinding function to block some of the bright rays of sun streaming inside Timothy Burmans' study.

Olivia leaned against the wall with her shoulders and watched bemused as St John glided across the room, taking in every little detail. For some reason he lifted his hand and rubbed his thumb and index finger together, his gaze settling on the numerous book shelves.

"It amazes me that people still own and read actual physical books," Olivia admitted.

"Why?" St John asked.

Olivia was taken aback. "Why... Well... Look at your own father. According to dad, yours used to be glued to the screen of his mobile phone. Is he using a connector now?"

"Yes he is," St John said. "And though he preferred the use of apps or the internet during his investigations, he always preferred actual books at the leisure of home."

"Oh," Olivia stammered a bit. "I didn't know. Never would have guessed. I always thought your dad so ahead of his time. Always embracing knew technology."

St John laughed out loud. "Dad? Ahead of his time? Oh, he embraces technology all right... when it suits him. When it doesn't, he tends to stick to the methods of the old days. Much to the chagrin of Dominic I might add."

Olivia smirked at that. Dominic Barclay Holmes... One of England's most promising Engineering Physicists, swiped away straight from Oxford by his uncle, Dominic was offered a position in a new Applied Science program. If what St John said was true, it had to annoy such a modern guy to no end to see his dad stuck in the past decades.

"How _is_ Dominic by the way?" Olivia asked, smiling brightly.

"Still a pain in the butt."

"And Evelina? Haven't seen her in a long time."

"Abroad. Studying under her private tutor and travelling around the globe while at it. Though mother did mention she said she'd try to be home in time for the party."

Olivia was silent for a moment. It was still strange. Evelina Melodia, the second Holmes child, once her best friend growing up and now a rising star. With her enthralling soprano voice she was taking the world by storm. She knew it was much to the dismay of Evelina's father.

The one time she'd ever witnessed uncle Sherlock and aunt Kyrie fighting, was about Evelina leaving home or not. Before that day, she'd always considered Kyrie to be, well... weak-willed. She simply agreed with her husband in everything and didn't seem to have her own opinion. After that fight, Olivia had come to realise they were so in tune, that agreeing with the other or accommodating to the other, was just second nature to them.

Olivia had pulled Evelina away with her, not wanting her friend to be witness of that horrible fight her parents were having. That was back when they were still living in that grand townhouse in Wesley Street.

When uncle Sherlock went too far in that fight, aunt Kyrie had simply moved out and went to stay with her brother-in-law.

While St John was still looking around, Olivia tried to remember what had offended aunt Kyrie so much she had actually briefly entertained the thought of leaving her husband. Very briefly.

If she remembered correctly, aunt Kyrie had returned home before nightfall. Something to do with uncle Sherlock standing for hours on end outside the gate of Mycroft Holmes' mansion, even though rain was pouring down from the sky, buckets at a time. Afraid he'd catch a pneumonia, Kyrie went outside to bring him in. He refused to budge however until he had apologised profusely and got her to promise she'd return home with him.

After that day, Olivia knew that aunt Kyrie too was a force to be reckoned with. Uncle Sherlock had relented and allowed Evelina to follow her dream to become an opera singer. She'd left for Rome soon after.

But for the life of her, Olivia couldn't remember what uncle Sherlock had blurted out that day that had made aunt Kyrie so angry she actually left her beloved home.

"Trying to come up with a way to inquire after my youngest sibling as well?" St John suddenly asked her.

Olivia shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know Scottie that well to be honest. She's rather..."

She stopped talking and gulped seeing the dark look that St John suddenly gave her.

"She's rather... what?"

His voice was laced with such venom that Olivia felt hot and cold at the same time.

"... quiet..." she squeaked, sensing that the topic of his youngest sister, Scottie Castalia, was a rather sensitive one.

St John gave her a last cold stare before he seemed to relax. "Sorry," he muttered before he lightly shrugged his shoulders. "With me pursuing dad's career, Evelina being an opera prodigy and Dominic a physicist marvel, Scottie feels a bit out of place with no... obvious talents... She's endured enough bullying about that at school as is. She's our little goldfish, I guess. We're all a bit overprotective of her."

Olivia groaned. "Please, don't tell me you refer to her as a goldfish in front of her! Poor kid!"

"Of course not!" he cried out in utter indignation.

"Good. And the bullying?"

"Stopped. Uncle Mycroft doesn't take kindly to witless morons insulting his little niece. If you think I was bad in my reaction... you should have seen him!"

Trying to cover up a laugh, Olivia cleared her throat and nodded her head in the direction of three investigators looking very busy near the fire place.

"You think that will bring something to light?"

St John didn't even look. "Not a thing," he said, sounding very sure of himself.

"Why? Do you doubt their skills?"

"Not their skills, no. I'm only saying that nothing will come from it."

Olivia looked on as one investigator carefully lifted the burned remnants of a paper on a glass plate. Even with the technological advances, in the crime scene investigation field as well, it was still easier to bathe burned documents in a mixture of glycerol and water, making it flexible enough again to restore the shape and flatten it, so they could then use their advanced gadgets to 'see' what used to be on the paper before it got burned. It would be such a waste of time and resources if St John turned out to be right.

"Why?"

St John ignored her question, he just marched from the study. "Let's go. There's nothing we can do here until the team is ready. We'll get back here later for our own investigation. I want to take a closer look at those bookshelves."

Olivia shrugged her shoulders. "You want to have a word with the relatives?"

"You do the talking. I'll watch, if you don't mind. If Mr Burman did have unsavoury secrets, it's best to start with them."

"Sure, I don't mind, if you explain to me why you are so sure those burned documents will lead to nothing."

"Easy. The fact alone the investigators were able to retrieve and repair the burned paper in one piece, proves it could never have been important. When you burn something that is important, you don't want another person to ever be able to read it. You don't want another person to know it even existed. So, you make sure nothing remains but dust and ashes. Let's go outside. I would like you to have a word with the lady of the house."

SSS

The garden was absolutely magnificent! Olivia stood in awe and noticed even St John looked around with obvious appreciation written on his face. No wonder though... While his father took great delight in beekeeping, his mother had taken up gardening. Kyrie Holmes would certainly appreciate the beauty of this garden, though hers was pretty much designed solely to cater to her husband's bees.

She could vividly remember their last visits to Holmes' magnificent cottage in Sussex, 'cosy' was just not enough to describe it. Aunt Kyrie had shown her, Rosie and their mother the garden while uncle Sherlock showed off his hives to their dad.

What was it aunt Kyrie had told them again about her garden? She'd used plenty of wild flowers, Olivia remembered that. Also that bees respond better to flowers native to the area. There were lots of flowers with single petals, because – according to aunt Kyrie – they have more pollen than other flowers and also give bees easier access. Kyrie had taught Olivia a few of the flowers that bees are particularly fond of, like dahlias, hollyhocks, marigolds, poppies, roses, snowdrops, sunflowers and zinnias.

In Kyrie's garden, the colours yellow, white, blue and purple were prevalent. Because those colours attract bees more. She'd also taken the seasons into consideration and planted a variety of flowers that bloom throughout the spring, summer, and into the fall to keep Sherlock's bees, maybe even other bees in their neighbourhood, fed and happy.

With her love for home made foods and preserves, she also had a section of fruits, vegetables and herbs. Some of her own liking, others also for the benefit of the bees.

To be honest, Olivia had often envied the Holmes children. It was clear for anyone to see how much their parents loved each other and doted on each other, and how well they complemented one another.

Though her own parents too loved each other very much, they also both had strong wills and tempers and sometimes they just clashed. Horribly. Oh, she'd heard plenty of stories about uncle Sherlock's less than winsome disposition and his difficult tempers, but she never witnessed those because the man was putty in his wife's hands and around his family. Except that one time of course...

She was also certain they still had a pretty active love life. And why not? For a man his age Sherlock was still quite handsome and Kyrie had not changed all that much. A bit fuller, a few lines and wrinkles here and there, and her hair had a paler shade than what it used to be... but she was still beautiful.

As she and St John walked over the garden paths, Olivia could feel her cheeks burn at that errant thought. Though no child felt comfortable thinking about their parents having sex, Olivia knew her own parents had lost much of their interest in that particular activity and she wasn't exactly sure how she felt about that. Especially after she'd accidentally walked in on the Holmes couple, fully engaged in... well... that...

God, that had been so embarrassing! They'd probably felt comfortable and carefree in their ardour with all of their children away that day. How could they have known that Olivia had wanted to surprise them with a visit after staying with a friend? She was pretty sure she'd managed to retreat before things could get even more awkward with them noticing her... but the image of _them_ doing _that_ had never left her. And she'd often wondered if embarrassment had kept her from joining her parents on their visits, or the slightly painful knowledge that they still shared something that her own wonderful parents seemed to have lost.

Suddenly feeling a little bit glum, Olivia continued down the path in the direction of the raised terrace in the middle of the garden.

If St John noticed anything about her change of mood, he didn't let it show. The roses and the various flowerbeds had lost some of their appeal and Olivia couldn't help but think how aunt Kyrie would huff at the lack of bee friendly flowers. And of course, uncle Sherlock would heartily agree with her.

When they reached the raised terrace, they soon noticed Mrs Burman seated on a dainty chair, one foot tucked underneath her, completely engrossed in what the paper thin screen was showing her. She didn't even look up when St John and Olivia approached her.

St John gently cleared his throat in an attempt to draw her attention, still Mrs Burman started as if a shot had been fired. Olivia smiled encouragingly at her and soon she could see the tension leave the older woman's shoulders.

"Apologies. It was not our intention to give you such a fright, Mrs Burman. If you don't mind, we would like to ask you a few questions," St John told her curtly.

"And you are?" Mrs Burman asked him. It seemed St John's tone of voice instantly put the woman on the defence and she cast him a curious glance, not hiding the fact she was wondering about his nattily attire. It was not something one often saw these days and certainly not on someone so young.

"Please excuse my... partner..." Olivia decided on saying. "My name is Olivia Watson, I... um..." She sighed in dismay when she couldn't find a suitable explanation without making it seem as if she was nothing more than an 'assistant'. "... assist him when he's on a case. He's the newest Consulting Detective, St John Holmes. That name should ring a bell."

"Ah, yes. The Yard did mention you were to be expected. I'm sorry, I expected..."

"My dad?" St John said gruffly. "He no longer works cases."

"No," Mrs Burman said a bit hesitant. "I did not expect Holmes Sr. I guess I just hadn't expected his son to be so young. Why don't you have a seat? Care for some tea?"

"No, thank you. We just want to ask a few questions. Did your husband have a lot of enemies?"

Olivia glowered at the tall man next to her. _Would you like to have a cup of tea, Olivia? I would love a cup of tea, St John... Thank you for asking..._ Had it been like this for her dad when he traipsed along with Sherlock Holmes on a case? She couldn't say she was having a good time so far.

Mrs Burman smiled at him and didn't seem at all perturbed by his curt manners. "Mr Holmes, my husband was not an evil person, but he was a difficult person to get along with. For as far as I know, he didn't have 'enemies' but no one really liked him. Most people hated his guts for sure, but enough to kill him?"

"How about you?" St John pressed on.

 _So much for me doing the talking_ , Olivia thought wryly.

"Did I like him? Not at all. I was young when I married him, Mr Holmes, and I did not have a whole lot of ambition. He was rich and powerful and he'd set his cap on me. Marrying him seemed like a ticket to an easy life."

"So, you married him and you had one child, correct? A daughter."

Mrs Burman's eyes softened at the mention of her daughter. She smiled. "Yes, Cynthia, my darling angel."

Silence fell. Olivia noticed that St John was studying her and Mrs Burman seemed lost in thought. Olivia shrugged her shoulders and decided to step in.

"Friday... when your husband died, you were not at home?"

Mrs Burman blinked her eyes and settled her gaze on Olivia. "No one was at home. The wife of Dr Wyans, a family friend, was throwing a lavish party. She does that every year. If Tim wasn't forced to take it easy because of his knee, he would probably have joined us."

Olivia tried to remember what she'd read in the file.

"His condition was no reason for you to stay at home?" Olivia asked her curiously, knowing that if one of her parents would fall ill, the other wouldn't dream of going out.

Mrs Burman gave a slight shrug of the shoulders. "His condition hasn't been a reason for me to stay at home for years."

"But you did take care of him?"

"Yes. I always made sure he took his medication. I was also the one who helped him with his insulin injections."

"Injections?" St John asked, seemingly surprised.

Mrs Burman nodded her head. "The new inhalers are not sufficient for him."

"And it can take a few more years before the buccal mucoadhesive films become available," Olivia said, nodding her head. "A thin film you can apply on the cheek lining," she then explained, noticing the bland look on St John's face.

"Fine. And your supply was... for how many days?"

"Usually a month. We had one of those InsuNow pens that checked the blood sugar level first before injecting the correct amount of insulin. Tim usually needed 8 units a day."

"So, usually you had supply for a month, but not now?"

Mrs Burman started fidgeting in her chair a bit.

"No. Dr Wyans had problems with his regular supplier. To tie us over, he prepared 10 shots with 8 units. I could always call him if a different dose was needed."

"Any signs of burglary in those ten days prior to his death?"

"Not that I know of. I'm sorry I can't give you more information, but that's really all I know."

"That's quite all right," St John said with a slight nod before directing his gaze back on the garden.

"This is a magnificent garden you have. My mother is more partial to more of a... wilder look... to accommodate my father's bees, you see. But this is quite lovely."

Mrs Burman looked to her left, as if she'd never seen the garden before.

"Oh... Thank you. We just hired a landscaping artist, though my sister-in-law is technically the one who came up with the design."

"She's a landscaping artist too?"

Mrs Burman seemed to think that was funny. She laughed heartily and flicked her blonde hair back from her shoulders.

"Shelly? Oh no, she has no green thumbs to speak of. She wouldn't recognise a weed from a beautiful plant. No, she paints. She once painted this garden and we simply hired someone to bring it to life."

"Well, the result is marvellous." He gave her a last nod before he strode away.

SSS

Standing in front of the window in the drawing room, Olivia was staring outside, her hands thrust deep inside the pockets of her trousers. Mrs Burman was still reading and in the meantime one of the maids had offered her tea and scones at least three times. In all of that time, St John hadn't uttered a word.

Olivia threw an annoyed glance back over her shoulder for the umpteenth time.

"Are you redesigning your mother's garden in your mind or something?" she asked after some time.

"What did you think of Deirdre Burman, Olivia?" St John asked her.

Not really the answer she expected, but at least he was talking again.

"She seems nice, I guess. Why? What do you think of her?"

St John remained silent for quite a bit and for a moment Olivia feared he was lost in the vast space of his – what was it that dad called it again? – right... 'Mind Palace'.

"Deirdre Burman is a dreamer," he finally said. Thank God for small miracles. "There's not much else to say about her. Other than that she made a few unfortunate events in her life and is trying to hide the fact she's having an affair. My guess would be Dr Wyans."

"How can you know that?" Olivia exploded. "We haven't even met the doctor yet!"

Again, St John didn't bother to answer. Instead he was staring at the entrance of the drawing room as if he was expecting someone. When Olivia turned to look, she saw that a young woman – a girl still, really – suddenly appeared.

"You requested to see me?" Her voice sounded cool and detached.

"Ah, Cynthia! Thank you for coming."

Cynthia? Cynthia Burman? Olivia stared at the girl in shock. Holy crap... St John was right. Deirdre Burman really was a dreamer if she considered her daughter an angel. Long messy red hair, heavily applied make-up, several tattoos and piercings... she didn't exactly have an 'angelic' look about her. Olivia had a feeling that the black clothes had nothing to do with being in mourning but all the more with her life style.

"I'm sorry about your loss," Olivia started, but the girl merely shrugged her shoulders.

"So... your dad," St John said, while fixing her with a stare, gauging her response.

"He's dead."

Olivia's lips started to twitch.

"I know. I'm here to investigate his death," St John shot back.

"So, he _was_ killed?"

Olivia's mouth dropped open. "You... you didn't know?"

Cynthia shrugged her shoulders again. "No one ever tells me anything. But with the 'squints' around, and you... I figured his death wasn't as natural as everyone at first thought."

"Squints?"

Cynthia huffed. "The crime scene investigators. They squint their eyes when they're researching. Squints."

"About your dad. Tell me about him," St John demanded.

"What's left to tell? You should know everything already by now."

"I'd like to hear it from you."

Cynthia flopped down in a comfortable looking armchair and she rolled her eyes in annoyance. "He was never around and whenever he was, he was out for a fight. He complained about everything and everyone... even mother. My boyfriend stopped coming over here months ago. Except for that Friday."

"So your boyfriend didn't get along with your father. His name?"

"My dad couldn't get along with anyone, not even his own conscience. And my boyfriend's name is Jason Manders."

"And he is...?"

"I think he means to ask about his profession," Olivia added.

"Oh, well... Jason is a freelance writer."

"And you?"

"Student. I want to be a doctor. Not that I'd ever have to work for the money. Especially now that daddy left me with a whole lot of money. But he hated the fact I wanted to make something of myself. My dad made it his life's mission to hurt others. I'm making it mine to help."

Olivia glanced at St John. There was no love lost between the girl and her deceased parent. She had the medical know-how... An unemployed boyfriend, a costly education, money in a trust fund that would be hers to do with as she pleased when her father died. Olivia liked her as a prime suspect.

"Olivia? Try and keep up, will you? Harper Burman and his wife Shelly just arrived. I'd like to have a word with them both."

Olivia rolled her eyes. Maybe she should give her mother a call and warn it might still take a while. St John still had a long way to go before he could really measure up to his dad. From the looks of it, they would be late for the party his parents were having!

When St John strode away, Olivia followed suit. The sooner they were done here, the sooner they could join the party.

SSS

"So, you know about your husband's financial problems?" St John asked Shelly Winters. Olivia detected a curious gleam in his stormy eyes. Shelly smiled and flicked back a couple of unruly curls.

"Of course, though the idiot is blissfully oblivious to that. He still thinks it's his money I spend. He also still thinks it's his money that pays for the bills. That is not the case. We are living, quite comfortably I might add, off my own hard earned money."

"I take it selling your paintings is quite lucrative for you then."

This time Shelly threw back her head with laughter. "You are too funny, Mr Holmes. Ever heard of Adelaine Lotterby?"

St John quirked a brow at her. "Should I have?"

Olivia bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud at the look of silent outrage that briefly bloomed on Shelly's face.

"Don't mind him, he's much like his dad. If the knowledge doesn't help to solve cases, it won't get a spot on their hard drives. I happen to know that Adelaine Lotterby is one of today's most celebrated artists. I take it I have the pleasure of speaking with her now?"

Shelly gave her an appeased little smile. "Now you understand, I'm an independent, well-off woman. In fact, Harper is dependent on me. He may be an idiot, but I do love him. As I said earlier, before your... companion... so rudely interrupted me..." Shelly shot St John a glare, who didn't seem too disturbed by it.

"... my secret 'career' was the reason I was so frustrated when we got the invitation so late. On Tuesday! For a party to be held on Saturday! Lady Kensington usually isn't so tardy with her invitations."

"Wait," St John interrupted, "Are you saying that Lady Kensington sent the invitation by Royal Mail? What on earth for?"

"Oh, people still like to use it. I think it lends a bit more gravity to invitations or funeral cards. I think it's a shame the Royal Mail is a dying service. There's certainly something to be said for a beautiful designed and printed invitation, instead of a generic digital notice."

"Back to your frustration..." St John said, directing the topic back to something that might actually give him more information."

"Of course. You see, on Monday I had just made an appointment with a gallery to discuss the possibility of a display my newest works. I had to quickly make a call to reschedule that appointment. I still think it was very inconsiderate of Lady Kensington to... Is something the matter, Mr Holmes?"

Olivia glanced to her side and noticed how St John was quickly swiping across the paper thin screen of his connector. The feverish look in his eyes was very telling. Her father had often regaled of his adventures with Sherlock Holmes and how he never knew _how_ his friend's brilliant mind worked, but he always knew _when_ it worked. St John was on to something!

SSS

St John went to stand next to old Lestrade of Scotland Yard as he looked out of the window in the large study.

"Arrest Dr Wyans, he did it," St John said dryly, his arms folded together. Olivia arched a brow at him. St John largely ignored her, taking in the weathered face of the man beside him.

"I thought you'd retired?" St John asked.

Lestrade flashed him a grin. "And miss this? I'm almost retired, son, but not quite yet. Not before I witness you becoming The Yard's new bane of existence."

Olivia chortled softly at the remark.

Greg Lestrade lifted a bushy eyebrow and gave St John a questioning look. "Are you sure it's Dr Wyans who did it?"

"Positive."

"Do I dare ask how you figured that out? What gave him away? Was it a splash of mud on his shoes? A suspicious stain on his shirt?"

St John started to look a bit uncomfortable and Olivia bit her lip not to smile. For all his cocksure attitude, he was nowhere near the league of his illustrious father. Yet. He'd get there at some point, she had no doubt about that.

With a sigh, St John procured a file and a stack of letters and handed it to Lestrade. "Nothing to that extent. I'm afraid I'm not my father, I really had to work to figure this one out."

"What, you think your old man never had to?" Lestrade scoffed. "Sure, sometimes Sherlock needed but a single glance to solve a case, but he too had to really get involved often enough as well. Or didn't he ever tell you it took him the better part of a year to solve the case about 'The Woman'?"

"The Woman?" St John and Olivia asked in unison.

Lestrade grinned at them. "Of course he didn't tell you about _that_ one. Ask him about it some time and then give him my regards. On the other hand, maybe not. Your mother doesn't like being reminded of that period and she might have my hide. Now... this case...?"

"Olivia, care to enlighten Lestrade about Tim's medical condition first?"

She gave him a puzzled look but complied anyway. "Sure. Um... He suffered a heart attack a few years ago, shortly after that he was in a car accident and due to a deficiency of the hypothalamus – caused by the accident – he became diabetic. The new insulin inhalers weren't sufficient for him so he started on those smart InsuNow pens. He suffered another hart attack a while later and recently he had a small surgery... silicon replacement of the cartilage in the knee. Ironically, he was only able to enjoy it for one week."

Lestrade gave Olivia and St John a bland look. "So, the man was in poor condition. We already know the killer used that knowledge to their advantage. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything, Lestrade! It all came down to the timing. Because the week after the surgery was the moment the killer had to strike."

"Because of the Nadroparin."

"Exactly. To prevent a pulmonary embolism. Mrs Burman gave the injections each day, along with the insulin. 't Was a lucky thing the two syringes were sent to the lab for research, otherwise no one would have questioned the coroner determining the cause of death as a natural occurred cardiac arrest."

Olivia nodded her head. "It was a very clever murder that almost went unnoticed."

"Almost, but not quite."

"So we already gathered, that's when we called you in, remember?" Lestrade said, sounding a bit impatient.

"I know, I know. Problem was, it's easy enough to switch out two syringes. Once prepared, it's impossible to distinguish a syringe filled with Nadroparin from a syringe filled with insulin. Tim needed 80 units of Nadroparin, switching that for insulin..."

"... of which he needed only 8 units..." Olivia added.

"It's what killed him, I know. _Why_ do you think it was Dr Wyans?" Lestrade asked. "Like you said, switching the syringes was easy enough as they all knew about his condition and they all had motive."

"Yes, Mrs Burman because of the inheritance, Cynthia wanted full access to her funds, Shelly was tired of Tim hampering her career as a painter and Harper out of revenge because Tim refused to help him out again with his huge debts."

"We like Cynthia for the murder. Medical school, a father who kept cutting into her funds, she even was the one who suggested to make the kill with an insulin overdose. And she was overheard saying she wanted her father dead," Lestrade said.

"We all say things in anger, but I understand you had to take her into consideration, despite her young age."

"But it wasn't Cynthia?" Lestrade pressed on.

"No, it wasn't her. Consider this... A freak coincidence that kept Mrs Burman from receiving a new InsuNow insulin cartridge because of so called problems with the supplier. It was Dr Wyans who then supplied the temporary syringes filled with 8 units of insulin, the regular dosage. So, though it was easy to switch the syringes... how did the killer get access to the extra insulin? Because those 80 units of Nadroparin, needed to be replaced by 80 units of insulin."

"Exactly," Olivia cut in. "Though most medications are ordered online these days and delivered right at home, we can't do without emergency pharmacies. And there was a burglary in of them, Sunday before the party. There wasn't a lot missing but a vial of 300 units of insulin, morphine patches and vials of morphine. Because of that, local street junkies were suspected."

"And that's what betrayed Dr Wyans. I had my ideas about his motive, but I couldn't prove them, until I found those letters."

Lestrade turned them over in his hand and groaned. "Oh my God, don't tell me..."

"Love letters," Lestrade and Olivia said in unison.

"Yes. You see, Olivia, I was quite right in my assumption about the love affair. They were so afraid to leave digital proof of it, they communicated with each other the old fashioned way and slipped each other love notes and letters. I found those in the study when we were finally able to get back in. In a house that was always thoroughly cleaned, something _had_ to be hidden in the one room that looked like it had never even seen a dust rag. And on the book shelf, it was obvious to see, one book was removed and put back a lot. Dust really is eloquent you know. I found a book with a hidden compartment."

"Seems someone loved to read a few too many old detective novels."

"Indeed. So, motive found and Dr Wyans already betrayed himself by accident."

" _How_?" Lestrade asked in exasperation.

"Isn't it obvious?" St John asked, looking and sounding absolutely perplexed.

"No!" Lestrade grumbled, "And I can see you're going to be as much of a cock about it as your old man."

St John sighed. "When was the burglary?"

"Sunday before the party."

"When was the invitation to that party received?"

"How the hell should I know?" Lestrade bellowed.

"Honestly, Lestrade! Didn't you speak with the suspects?" St John shook a weary head. "They received the invitation on Tuesday. Meaning, on Sunday – when the burglary was committed to obtain the extra needed insulin – no one knew about the upcoming party; no one knew that on that Friday, Tim would be all alone."

"Except..."

"Lady Kensington and her husband Dr Wyans. I doubt Lady Kensington had reason to kill Timothy Burman. Dr Wyans did. I bet that Tim found out about the affair and threatened to expose Dr Wyans. Like Mrs Burman, Dr Wyans wouldn't see a penny of his wife's fortune in case of a divorce. He didn't want to kill his own wife, not that killing her would have mattered since all of her estates and riches would have gone to their son.

"If I were you, I'd get my hands on one of those invitations. I'd stake my life that Lady Kensington posted the invitations right before the national strike. Meaning, the invitations that should have been received on Saturday, didn't arrive till Tuesday. Making Dr Wyans the only person who knew about the party on Friday. No one else but the killer, Dr Wyans, had reason to steal the insulin that Sunday."

They all fell quiet for a moment. Finally, Lestrade nodded his head. "I'll order his arrest right away. You did well, St John. Your old man will be proud of you."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I don't know. If your overzealous agent hadn't sent those two syringes to the lab, this could have been the perfect murder."

"Yes, but an overzealous agent _did_ send those syringes to the lab."

"But what if Mrs Winters hadn't made that one comment..."

"... She did though, and otherwise you would have found something else. Relax, St John," Lestrade admonished him. "You solved the case. Be proud."

"We both did and we both are," Olivia said with a smile. "He knows next to nothing about medicine," she said, pointing at St John.

"That's why I've got you," St John quipped. "I'm starting to believe dad was right..."

"About what?" Olivia asked, a grin tugging at her lips.

"We do need a Watson. Care to be mine?"

Olivia, feeling like a little imp, slipped her arm through his. "Why, Mr Holmes... Is that a proposal?"

"What? No! Get your head on straight, woman!" He angrily pulled back his arm and stalked away.

She smiled as she watched him go, feeling just a bit giddy inside. Not only was she following in her father's footsteps by taking over his practice, like him she would become the sounding board for the new Consulting Detective. Whether he liked it or not, she was quite set on that.

"Lestrade, I guess I'll be seeing you at the Holmes' party later?"

"Of course, just like every year... unlike you."

"I guess I have a reason to attend again. Would you mind forwarding a national wide message for me? I doubt St John has the spread I want and I also doubt Sherlock still has the spread he used to have."

Lestrade grinned at her. "It would be my pleasure. What do you want it to be?"

Soon after, Olivia was comfortably seated in an automated-driving Bullet, her connector chimed with a sound that indicated a message of importance. She smiled when she whipped it out and checked the message. The smile broadened when she read the words.

#221B Baker Street. Bring it!


	127. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

 **Sorry it took me so long to get this epilogue out. With the heat, my dad's passing, work and simply... the desire to pick up my other hobbies again, I found it difficult to find the right words to create the epilogue, even though I've known for a long time what would happen. Since Sherlock and Kyrie are much older now, of course a lot has happened in their lives I didn't touch on. I hope this epilogue leaves you guys satisfied and that you find it a worthy closure of this (long) story! The epilogue contains a lot of reflection, sorry if you guys were hoping for a lot of interactions, but I felt that in this stage of his life, reflection on the past would suit Sherlock better. For now, all I can say is... THANK YOU! ALL OF YOU! It has been quite a ride, quite a journey. It was sometimes crazy hard to stick with this project and you really don't want to know how often I came very close to quitting, only to find the energy and motivation I needed by all the lovely PM's and reviews you guys gave me. Please, humour me one last time and go out with a bang... Leave me a lovely, wordy review so I can bask in the afterglow. I love you all! 3**

 **Musical Bear Haha there's a lot about Kyrie and Sherlock that Olivia doesn't know about! And Rosie was hardly mentioned because, well... they are sisters. They see each other often enough, so during this case, working together with St John, Olivia was more absorbed with thoughts about the Sherlocks. As for the ages of the children and what they are doing with their lives, I hope you find all the answers to your questions in this epilogue. Since you once asked whom Kyrie would resemble in real life... I still don't have an answer for that but... Evelina looks like a young Liv Tyler, Dominic like a mix between Matt Bomer and Henry Cavill, with curlier hair. And Scottie like a very young Rosamund Pike.**

 **Lovesagoodstory19 You are so right about John and Mary. Your words portray exactly how they became in my mind. There's more about Rosie and the Holmes kids in this epilogue. Including what they've all been up to. And yes, Scottie is pretty much a carbon copy of Kyrie, minus the singing talent and the colour of eyes, but with all of her heart and feeling!**

 **DreamonAlina All the children came to me, what they look like, what they are doing with their lives. I knew Evelina would have her mother's singing talent, though she doesn't have the sharp mind like her dad and brothers. St John takes wholly after Sherlock of course. Dominic is a cheeky devil who's smarts could be compared to how Leonardo thinks in 'Da Vinci's Demons'. And Scottie is just Scottie. A young girl who is still trying to find her role in life. You'll find out more about the fight between Sherlock and Kyrie in the epilogue.**

 **Elbafo The course was in Dutch. So, if the grammar of that story feels a bit off, that's because I had to do a lot of on the spot translations and sometimes I went a bit too literal ;) I did ace the assignment by the way! I couldn't have Rosie be St John's partner, because... well... her life took a different path in my mind. There's probably volumes and volumes I could still write about this little family, but... for now I'm done and I have to admit I really look forward to taking up my other hobbies again!**

 **Jane S. Gold. Thank you! There's not a whole lot about St John and Olivia this chapter, but they had a big chapter of their own so I wanted to tell a bit more about the others. I hope you enjoy this epilogue as much as the rest of the story!**

SSS

Sherlock huddled against the crisp wind and wrapped his arms about himself as he sought to find some warmth and protection from the elements. Again, he was proven right in his firm belief one should never leave home without the comfort of a good coat. That knowledge did not help him in the slightest right now. He was still forced to dismally stare up at the large mansion, his vision impeded by the rain.

No one in their right mind would wilfully stand outside in this godforsaken weather, allowing themselves to become drenched to the bone. Yet, he was.

"You better come out soon, Kyrie," he gritted through lips already stiff from the cold, "I'm freezing out here!" With the rain and the deepening cold, it would be difficult to wait out here till her anger had passed, yet he had no other choice.

Not feeling like standing in the rain for a very long time, Sherlock decided to force her hand and did something he knew would drive her out to come and see him. That's all he wanted.

With icy fingers, Sherlock unbuttoned his soaked greatcoat and plucked the fabric away from his body, cursing his haste that had made him forget his gloves as he did so. He then folded the garment over his arm and just stood there in his thin jacket, wholly unprotected against the raindrops pelting in his face. They seemed as frigid as his icy limbs.

His shirt, trousers and jacket got soaked in an instant, and with the intensity of the howling wind and the slashing downpour, he was doubling the risk of getting a pneumonia. He was betting on the fact that, no matter how angry she was at the moment, Kyrie would never want him to get seriously ill because of their silly row.

It was some moments before he realized that a curious numbness had settled down within him after his spat with Kyrie. To some degree it cushioned the harshness of his current predicament, because he now no longer dwelt on how cold and miserable he was. Instead he was all too aware he himself was to blame for all of this. He didn't even have a valid excuse for running his mouth the way he'd done. He'd been scared, terrified... And that was it. Unable to cope with the prospect of losing Evelina to, well... basically everyone else in the world but him, he'd lashed out at the one person he needed the most to _be_ able to cope...

" _You_ did this to me! _You_ turned my life upside down with no regard at all for how I wanted to lead it. I was the worlds' one and only Consulting Detective. I had dedicated my entire way of life to one thing and one thing a lone... My mind! And then you came along and changed me into... into... this! A pathetic mewling excuse for a man, paralysed at the thought of losing his daughter. I shouldn't be like this. _You_ made me _weak_!"

He really shouldn't have said all of that. Hell, he didn't even mean any of it; he'd just felt so... so... _helpless_!

"Really, Sherlock? You prefer to have your life back the way it was? You prefer your mind over love? Very well, you can have your old life back. I'm leaving. I hope you and your mind will be very happy together."

Sherlock shuddered, reliving that moment of just a few hours ago. He'd needed just a few moments to get his mind into gear again. In those few moments, Sherlock had gotten a glimpse of what his life might have been like without Kyrie in it.

Dealing with Irene, the Hound of Baskerville, jumping off Barts' rooftop... He would have have dealt with those cases without her. Without Kyrie, he saw two grumpy men – friends, but always in each other's hair – in the old Baker Street flat. Without Kyrie, Norbury might have shot him, killed him. Or maybe Mary would have intervened, perhaps she would have died. And Sherlock would have just gone on, trudging through life by himself, his mind – in his eyes – his only worthy asset. He'd live his life, grow old and – in the end – his mind would start to fail him. He could vividly see himself sitting there, an old man, sitting in his comfortable armchair, holding a book in his trembling hands with words his eyes could no longer read very well. He'd sit there and breathe out his last breath, old and alone. He'd shuddered at the thought and instantly went after his wife...

Okay... Kyrie was taking her sweet time. Meaning she was really, really, REALLY pissed at him. The storm had now gathered over the city, deepening the evening sky into a brooding darkness, but in the strange eerie gloom, Sherlock kept his eyes toward the foreboding looking house.

He sighed a trembling sigh of relief when he finally spotted the lone figure of his wife quickly making her way over to him. Even from this distance, Sherlock could see her eyes were no less stormy than the violent sky above them. He did not feel worried in the least. She was here. He would apologise; she would understand and return home with him. A bit cocky perhaps, but that was the way it was, the way it had always been. Now, if only he had a skip button so he could skip right to the making up and kissing part...

Sherlock blinked his eyes. For a brief moment he felt disoriented as he watched the bees buzz around him. It took him only that brief moment to realise he'd just experienced another lapse back in time again, something he noticed happened quite often these days. In the last few weeks, Sherlock had relived and re-experienced many memories of long past; good ones, bad ones, horrific one and glorious ones. They all involved Kyrie. Perhaps, his mind was telling him he'd lived a good life and that it was now time to definitely hand the reigns over this his son. His mind was helping him to let go, by remembering that not all memories, good _or_ bad, resolved around his career.

He smiled at the thought.

The smell of honey and wax at the hive was like a soothing balm. So was the nice buzz of activity at the entrances of his hives. Still, Sherlock couldn't help but feel a bit guilty as he checked each hive for nectar and pollen stores and making sure there was a nice laying pattern in the brood chambers. As he put the honey supers on the hives, he softly talked to his bees.

"Sorry, I know I'm a bit distracted today. Just quickly checking how you are doing. From the looks of it, everything is just fine. Good thing there's always a flower or two in bloom around here, hmm? March could have been very different for you lot."

After a last check to ensure his queens were alive and well, and busy laying eggs, Sherlock closed the hive he was attending. He walked down the grassy slope in the direction of the cottage where he spotted his wife outside, laying out forks and knives and other utensils at the two wooden picnic tables.

As he approached the cottage he was already pulling down the zipper of his lightweight bee costume so he could easily doff his gear in the shed close to the cottage.

Stepping outside, he was wearing his suit jacket again and smoothing down the collar, while silently looking on as Kyrie went about her way. Watching her never ceased to fill him with that same simple pleasure and feeling of contentment he'd experienced so many years ago.

Maybe he was a bit prejudiced, but with her 55 years, Kyrie was still a sight to behold. Absolutely beautiful. Though the shade of her hair now resembled carefully spun moonshine instead of sunshine, it was a lustrous as ever. Even after giving birth to their four children, she had retained a youthful slim figure, though perhaps a bit fuller and rounder than when he first met her. He had long decided it only added to her beauty.

As for himself? A life filled with activity had made sure his physique hadn't changed much.

Kyrie still complained about his scrawny arms and legs, even though he was certain they were more flabby now than they used to. Gone were the abs, unless they were hiding under that small layer of fat that, according to himself, seemed to grow larger every year. Still, Kyrie seemed to think he was still attractive, even with the grey streaking through his curls and kissing his temples, the lines in his face and the wrinkles around his eyes that were just there, even when he wasn't laughing.

"Mum! Does this look all right to you?"

Sherlock's gaze instantly settled on the source of that sound... a young girl flitted outside, a plate clasped firmly in her hands, its contents ready for her mother to appraise. Kyrie needed but one look before she ushered the girl back inside.

"It looks absolutely perfect, dear heart! Now quickly, put it in the freezer, it's supposed to be a surprise for your father!"

"Will it be okay, staying in the freezer that long?"

"Of course! Now, remember... wait till the darkness sets in and dad will begin to put on the garden lights. Then you bring this to the table, along with the ladle of rum and some cinnamon. At the table, light the rum and slowly pour it over the meringue while sprinkling in the cinnamon for the sparks. It will be beautiful!"

As his daughter turned around with a beaming smile on her face, Sherlock could feel his eyes start to sting. Damn it! Unbelievable what an emotional sod he'd become over the years! A family man through and through. Mycroft could make fun of him as much as he liked, even he could never stay away long from this little piece of heaven that Sherlock had managed to secure for himself. And to imagine that – long ago when he was still an uncouth youth – he had resigned himself to a life of solitude. He shook his head. What a fool he'd been! He could still feel the coldness of that vision he had a couple of years back – and perhaps, just now – of that lonely, desolate life he could have lead.

Sherlock looked on as his 17 year old rushed back inside the cottage, her golden hair cascading down her slim shoulders all the way down to her waist. Of their four children, only Scottie had inherited her mother's golden locks and only Scottie had inherited her dad's blue and green eyes with flecks of gold dancing inside of them. His little goldfish... God, how much he loved her! In time, he was sure, she would make some miserable sod ridiculously happy, just as her mother had made him.

Waiting a few more moments, Sherlock finally stepped away from the shadows that were cast down by the shed and leisurely walked up to his wife. Without saying a word, he gently pulled her into his arms, not even the slightest bit surprised his wife seemed to have anticipated this. She gently rubbed her hand up and down his back, assuring him she understood exactly the kind of mood he was in.

They remained standing like there for a long blissful moment, until Sherlock felt it was safe to use his voice again. "Any word from Evelina?" he asked her softly.

"She's on her way," Kyrie murmured. "Mycroft and Dominic are picking her up from the airport as we speak."

Sherlock rubbed his jaw against the top of her head in relief. "That's good," he sighed. He still didn't like how little he'd seen of her these last three years. Then again, he'd always known that Evelina Melodia was never supposed to be theirs to keep. It was why he'd fought with Kyrie in a blind panic. She was their gift to the world, but Sherlock hadn't been ready to let her go. He still wasn't. It still hurt. At 21, Evelina had already far surpassed her mother's vocal talents. He'd always loved hearing Kyrie sing, but Evelina could make grown men cry with just a few trills of her voice.

Maybe his advancing years were finally catching up with him, but Sherlock nearly started right out of his skin when he heard his son's booming voice behind him.

"Mum, dad, please... Aren't you guys way too old for shit like that? I mean... way, way, way too old?"

Sherlock could feel a muscle twitch in his cheek. After all these years, 23 by now, he still wasn't sure if he should laugh or explode at the impudence of his offspring. Turning around to lay his eyes on the brawny figure of his son, Sherlock merely arched a lofty brow at him. "Nice to see you too, Dominic. I see you brought the rabble with you?"

His greying and balding brother gave him a dark scowl. "Who are you calling rabble, brother mine? May I remind you that..."

"Behave, boys!" Kyrie stepped in and glowered at her wayward son. "That goes for you too, Dominic Barclay! Don't be a pest the moment you arrive."

Dominic barked out a short laugh before he swept his mother off her feet and pulled her in for a bear hug.

Sherlock shook his head when he noticed Kyrie furiously tapping Dominic's shoulders in an attempt to be released and, no doubt, take a few gulps of much needed air. For the life of him, Sherlock could not explain how he'd begotten a son like Dominic. All that he could see of himself in him, were the dark curls and his pale complexion.

Dominic was shorter then him, but very broad of shoulder, very muscular and with an appealing physique that had many girls swooning for him. His eyes were as pure and cerulean blue as his older sister's and he was always either smiling or laughing. Something that just added to his appeal and made the most gorgeous women line up for him. He saw humour in everything and he loved to tease, to the great dismay of his father who didn't always know how to cope. Still, Dominic was far from ready to settle for a girl. He had plans, he had goals and in one of his few serious moments, he'd confessed he'd settle for nothing less than the kind of love the existed between his parents. Until then, he would enjoy life and bide his time.

"Sister mine," Mycroft drawled from next to his son, "Could you please tell your son he needs to adhere to the dress code? Look at him!"

Now Sherlock could feel a smile tugging at his lips. It was a feeling beyond what he was able to express in words, to know he wasn't the only one with the desire to drive his head against the wall in frustration, in dealing with Dominic.

He quickly covered his mouth with the back of his hand when Dominic quickly released his mother and gave her a cheeky grin. Sherlock didn't need to look to know that Kyrie's eyes were sparkling with humour.

"I _am_ looking at him, dear brother. I see he's wearing a dress shirt, a suit vest and even a tie at your request."

Sherlock's eyes met the glittering ones of his son and they both tried to stifle a laugh.

"He's not wearing them properly! The top three buttons of his shirt are open; he refuses to button his vest and his tie is loose and askew!"

"He's still wearing them. Your dress code says nothing about _how_ he should wear them."

"He's determined to make a fool of himself. Can't you talk some sense into him?" Mycroft asked in exasperation.

"Have you ever seen the sun set in the east?"

"This never would have happened if you'd only disciplined him a bit more, as I suggested. You've raised a hooligan!"

Suddenly Mycroft yelped, his feet dangling just above the ground.

"I'm not going to dress myself in a monkey suit," Dom said to his uncle. Though his voice was level and calm, Sherlock recognised the icy edge he seemed to have copied from the man his son was holding captive in a vice like grip.

"I told you this when you plucked me straight from school right after my graduation. What I'm wearing now is the only concession I'm willing to make. Now, about my mother... she raised me exceedingly well with good morals and values, something that I find oddly lacking in most of your other staff. If you want me to continue to work for you, I highly suggest you drop the subject and never dish on mum again."

Mycroft quickly nodded his head in agreement and Dominic instantly set him back down. Mycroft looked immensely relieved to feel solid ground beneath his feet again.

"Oh Dom, stop showing off those muscles will you? I get it, you grew big and strong... now step aside I..."

The moment a petite young woman brushed between her brother and uncle and got Sherlock in her sight, she stopped talking. Words fled him and he simply spread his arms for her. With a shriek she hurled herself into them, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck as she quietly sobbed against his shoulder.

No one said a word. Even Dominic blissfully held his tongue for once.

"I've missed you, daddy," Evelina whispered in between her sobs.

He nodded his head, overcome by his own emotions, before he whispered back, "I've missed you too, my darling girl."

He gave her a tender peck on her cheek, before she moved over to her mother's embrace. Sherlock quickly wiped at his eyes and he felt a great relief when he spotted John and Mary casually strolling down the lane leading up to the back garden of the cottage. His god daughter Rosie was sprinting ahead of them.

"Hi uncle Sherlock. Bye uncle Sherlock!"

He grinned when he saw a blur of platinum blond hair jumping right on top of Dominic for a bit of rough housing. Though St John was much closer to her age, he'd always been way too serious in his demeanour for the tastes of the ever exuberant Rosie. She and Dominic had always gotten along really well and in truth, Dominic was probably the only one who could handle Rosie's appetite for competition in wits and playful combat. Mycroft, always a keen eye for talent, had quickly roped her in to come and work for MI6 after a rigorous training and education. Though Mycroft was not at liberty to say, something he did anyway, Sherlock knew his god daughter was currently one of Mycroft's most lauded and exalted field agents.

Of his best friend's two children, it was Rosie who wholly took after her mother with the same tempestuous and adventurous spirit, while Olivia took after her old man. Olivia, now assisting St John on his first case after Sherlock's careful prodding, was an easy going young woman, with a caring nature but also a stubbornness that could easily rival St John's.

Sherlok smiled when he noticed a notification on his connector... The Yard, Lestrade no doubt. _#221B Baker Street. Bring it!_

He was confident that soon 221B Baker Street would be back in business. Sadly, St John would have to do without a feisty landlady. Mrs Hudson had passed away seven years back, leaving the entire flat to Sherlock.

For the last seven years, he'd just had it in his possession, not knowing what to do with it. It seemed, 221B had merely been waiting patiently for the new Consulting Detective to make his mark on the world.

With the other guests dropping in, there soon was little time to reminisce about the past. He felt a surge of contentment and pride bloom inside of his chest, when St John and Olivia finally appeared. It seemed they were already at odds with each other. Good, it was all the proof Sherlock needed to know that Olivia could handle his headstrong son.

He noticed the devious look that briefly lit Kyrie's face as she sat next to him at the table.

"He likes her," she said.

Sherlock furrowed his brows, taking in the frustrated look on his son's face as he was arguing loudly with Olivia while they approached the garden. Then he noticed what Kyrie was getting at, the admiration, carefully hidden in the depths of his expressive eyes.

"Let's hope he doesn't need seven years... like his old man," Sherlock quipped.

"Stop beating yourself around the head about that, maybe we weren't always _together_ but... we _were_ together."

"Hmm, I would have liked seven more years _together_ though. It would have given us ample time to have those ten children I once promised you."

Kyrie snorted with laughter. "Good God, easy for you to say! You just had your pleasure in making them, I was the one who actually had to bring them into the world! I told you I'd settle for four and in that regard, you certainly delivered!"

"Aye. And you're right."

She turned her head to look up at him with those lovely soft eyes. He smirked at her. "I did have pleasure in making them."

"You're incorrigible!" Kyrie muttered fondly at him.

A few hours later, his arm securely around his wife's shoulder, Sherlock thought what a happy person he was. His four children were present, each of them loved and cherished to all of his ability. And all of his friends were there with him as well.

Friendships that had endured time and numerous hardships, among which a miscarriage that John and Mary still had difficulty talking about. Sherlock knew their relationship had seen quite a few rough patches, but they were still going strong. Even if their relationship wasn't as harmonious and loving as Sherlock's relationship with Kyrie, he also knew that either one of them would gladly give up their life to save the other. Though it was a different kind of relationship, it was still a good one.

So was Jonathan and Molly's. They were present as well, along with their twenty year old son Prescott, one of the gangliest and nerdiest boys Sherlock ever had the pleasure to know. Clumsy and awkward as hell, but a heart of gold. Sherlock had seen him make goo-goo eyes at Scottie and he groaned inwardly, realising that history was about to repeat itself. With Molly completely in love and over the moon with Jonathan, Sherlock felt completely at ease to draw her attention to her son and roll his eyes at Prescott's failed attempts to get Scottie to notice him. Molly blushed a bit and chuckled, giving him a good-humoured wink.

Lestrade treated the assembled gathering to his boisterous laughter and absurd stories of his time at The Yard. St John's first case was meticulously retold and rehashed and Lestrade nearly doubled over with laughter when St John and Olivia couldn't seem to agree on anything. From details of their first case to careful mutterings of what the future would hold. Olivia yelled at him, threatening to recount every little detail on her personal connector page, bringing back the art of 'blogging'.

Judging the scowl on Mycroft's face, both Rosie and Dominic were trying their best to make fun of him. Ah, how his parents would have loved this.

His throat constricted a bit, as he thought back to his parents. They had loved being grandparents and all of his children had brought them immeasurable joy, right up to when their bodies failed... Unable to go on after her beloved George succumbed to a sudden heart attack, 'Mummy' Holmes unexpectedly passed away in her sleep, just a few months later.

Both Sherlock and Mycroft had floundered upon losing their mother. Even Eurus had silently cried upon receiving the news. She'd stopped communicating for several months after that. Only when Sherlock visited her and told her how Kyrie had effortlessly assumed the mantle of matriarch, managing to keep the 'clan' together, did Eurus cautiously start to play again.

There was no way to be certain, but it seemed 'family' still held some importance to his sister, who was still being held Sherrinford. Though he'd long resigned his sister could never be free, he had made sure, with Mycroft, that her 'stay' at Sherrinford was as comfortable and accommodating for her as possible. He still visited her every two weeks.

When he felt a hand gently clasp over his, Sherlock looked up and noticed his wife's tender attention on him. Of course she knew exactly where he was with his thoughts. Years ago, he'd never dream of such a gesture, now he simply leaned in to gratefully brush his lips against hers.

Years ago, the gesture would probably have surprised a lot of people, but the fact that no one present even batted an eye, showed how accustomed they were to seeing Sherlock in this role of loving husband and father.

Ooh's and Aah's erupted when Scottie suddenly appeared with a large plate. Sherlock looked up at the darkened sky and noticed only then that evening had well set in. Everyone seemed to be stuffed to the seams, but apparently there was still room enough for Scottie's dessert. He furrowed his brows when he noticed the garden light's were already on. Kyrie gave him a cheeky grin, merely shrugged her shoulders and nodded in Dom's direction.

"You seemed a bit lost in thought, Sherlock," she said softly. "I asked Dom to activate the lights. Scottie was getting a bit anxious."

Placing the 'Flame on the Iceberg' in the middle of the table, Scottie carefully lit a ladle with rum, drizzled it over the meringue and sprinkled cinnamon into the flames, making tiny sparks, eliciting elated gasps and more lovestruck glances from a certain Prescott Creek.

When Scottie then hurried inside the cottage, only to emerge with a mini 'Flame on the Iceberg' for one and set it in front of her uncle, Sherlock shook his head in wonder.

He arched a brow at Kyrie. "I thought this was supposed to be a surprise for me?" he whispered under his breath.

"It _was_ a surprise for you, she made it all by herself with a minimum of instructions by me."

"And then she makes a special one for him?"

"Behave, Sherlock!" Kyrie whispered. "Don't be so jealous. You know she adores Mycroft. And she's got him wrapped around her little finger."

"They _all_ have him wrapped around their little fingers, if you hadn't noticed."

Kyrie chuckled lightly. "It's a wonderful sight to behold. I think Mycroft needs a new codename though. Antarctica no longer suits him. How about... Fluffy?"

Sherlock coughed to hide his laughter, "I don't think the rest of his staff would agree. They would never believe their eyes if they'd see him like this."

"Do people actually still believe he's like... _that_?"

"They shudder at the mere mention of his name."

"What, they never saw Scottie skip through the halls holding his hand?"

"I think he used a device that Dom invented to wipe their memories."

"You're not being serious now," Kyrie complained.

He laughed and brought her hand to his lips for a kiss.

"Good Lord, wrap it up people, last time dad gave mum _that_ look, he came home with a goldfish nine months later," Dom said with a smirk. He instantly regretted his words when Scottie dumped a portion of the ice cold dessert that was meant for him on his head.

"Fucking hell!" he cried out.

"I'm not a goldfish, Dom!" she hissed.

"No, you're a little imp!" he said, jumping up from his seat and making a lunge for Scottie. She shrieked when she wasn't fast enough. Dominic held her fast as he rubbed his ice cream covered face all over her.

Everyone held their breath when Rosie quietly got to her feet and scooped up a handful of ice cream. A large grin spread on her face when she suddenly pulled back his head and stuffed his face with the cold treat.

Try as he might, but Sherlock couldn't contain the loud guffaw that erupted from him, seeing his son standing there, his face dripping with ice cream. With a casual flick of his hand, Dominic wiped away the excess ice cream and made for Rosie. Rosie just laughed and somersaulted away, leaving behind Dominic slack-jawed.

"That's cheating!" he yelled after her.

With a smile on her face, Scottie settled herself between Mycroft and her big brother St John. Neither of them seemed to mind she was getting ice cream all over them. Evelina smiled, drew her finger through a blob of blackberry ice cream and made an audible sound of approval.

"Better than mum's, Scottie!"

Scottie looked extremely content with the praise, Dom's teasing comment of her being a goldfish all but forgotten. They all knew, including Scottie, that Dom was merely teasing her. If anyone even dared to look at her wrong, Dominic would be the first to exact swift revenge on them. She was _their_ little goldfish and no one else was allowed to call her that.

Feeling as if he could just burst with happiness, Sherlock rose to his feet and held up his glass.

"I would like to make a toast," he said, inwardly cringing just a bit when he noted the looks of surprise around him. "The older I get, the more I realise that happiness – well, _my_ happiness at least – comes from the simple things in life: love..."

Sherlock paused for a brief moment to smile at Kyrie. She smiled right back up at him, a soft look in her eyes that told him the story of their love. A love that over the years had only grown stronger and became beautifully nuanced.

"... a comfy home, good food on the table and surrounded by the people I hold most dear. Tonight, I have all those things at the same time and... I just want to apologise. So, I'm sorry, I truly am. For all the stupid things I did, for the stupid things I said, for the things I should have done but didn't and for the things I should have said... but didn't. To quote Abraham Lincoln. 'I walk slowly, but I never walk backward.' The path I've walked, I've walked with all of you. Here's to many more miles, may we walk them together."

Everyone present raised their glasses and they all cheered in agreement.

When he sat back down, Kyrie leaned in a bit closer and looked up at him, her eyes alight with love.

"You, my love, turn out to have the heart of a poet. It makes you almost seem... normal."

"Normal?" he scoffed with a laugh, "I tried that once."

"And?" Kyrie asked, her eyes sparkling.

"Worst five minutes of my life!"

They both laughed out loud, ignoring the confused looks the others gave them. They could look to their hearts content. All they'd see, were two people who had shared numerous hardships, but also a great deal of laughter – and, if Sherlock was not mistaken, and he was sure he wasn't, more love than either of them had ever counted on.


End file.
